


Spark to a Flame

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Fireman AU - Freeform, Fireman Greg, M/M, Terrorism, prompt from the Mystrade Reading Club on Discord, why do i do this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21688690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Greg is a London Fireman, and Mycroft is...well, Mycroft, doing his thing, being the British Government and the CIA on a part time basis... When a major incident on Westminster Bridge brings Mycroft into direct contact with the emergency services, he meets a certain silverfox.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 117
Kudos: 355
Collections: Sherlock (BBC)





	1. Light blue touch paper...

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how accurate this info is, concerning protocols or Fire Service practice or anything like that. I always try to do research, but this is not a documentary or an essay, so innaccuracies are bound to be there. Hope it just hangs together enough to ring true.

“Here, hold this…”

“It’s a kitten…”

“Give that man a coconut. Your powers of observation are amazing, Greg.” Irene shook her head and carried on adjusting her camera. 

“Why have you given me a kitten?” Greg asked, cradling the tiny grey feline in his hand and petting it gently.

“Goes with your hair. No, seriously, it does. And it’s cute. Ladies love big strong men with tiny kittens.”

“And large…”

“Sally!” Greg objected as his subordinate Watch Manager walked into the room. 

She eyed her partially nude boss and rolled her eyes. “Who talked you into this then?”

“Molly did. Apparently it’s for charity.” Greg leaned back against the ladder, then yelped. “Christ! That’s cold.”

“Well, if you will lean on a metal ladder when you’re naked, what do you expect?”

“I’ve still got my trousers on, thank you. I’m not completely undressed.”

“Give me time,” Irene purred, and Sally laughed appreciatively. 

He spent the next fifteen minutes cradling the kitten and posing against the ladder, trying to look sexy. At least, Irene thought he looked sexy, but in Greg’s opinion, he looked like a complete tit. At least, at his age he might not be as buff as some of his younger colleagues but he was still in good shape. He did less physical stuff these days but he still worked out at the gym. Kitten notwithstanding, he felt that his photo might still be worthy of being put in the annual Firefighters’ Charity Calendar. “Well, fella, thanks for making me look decent,” he said, when the session came to a close. The kitten mewed it’s agreement. 

“Whose kitten did you steal?” he asked Irene, handing the little furball back.

“I did not steal him,” she objected. “He’s mine. This is Jude Paw.”

“Who the fuck names a cat Jude Paw?”

“My kids do,” she said, smiling. “Have to admit though, as puns go, it is quite funny.”

“Well, Jude, try not to get stuck up a tree, mate, because I am not coming to rescue you with a name like that…”

He was pulling his tee shirt on again when the alarm sounded. “Great,” he muttered, having been deprived of his dinner by the photoshoot. He stuck his head out of his office. “What gives?”

“Major incident on Westminster Bridge,” came the reply. “They’re calling for all available crews…”

“Fucking Hell, what’s gone down?”

“Details are still coming in...We’ll have to get updates enroute.”

“Why do I do things for charity…?” He dashed off at a run, joining the rest of his team on the engine as they headed out into the city, lights flashing, sirens parting the traffic like the red sea. _This is my life,_ he thought, listening to the run-down of the job they were headed to.

**0000000**

Across London, Mycroft found himself caught up in chaos. He was stuck in his car. Quite simply, jammed into it. He wasn’t sure what had happened. He had been heading into work as usual, his driver maneuvering through the daytime traffic with the ease of long familiarity. There was a moderate number of vehicles on the bridge, as was usual at this time of day. Mycroft had been on the phone to his assistant Anthea, going over the plans for the upcoming trade talks in France, when there was a loud bang and everything had all gone to Hell in a few seconds.

His phone flew out of his hand and he was thrown sideways like a ragdoll, although the restraint of the seat belt stopped him ending up on the floor. The car slewed violently to the right. It spun, tires protesting as the driver applied the brakes and tried to drive out of the spin. They came to an abrupt halt as the vehicle slammed into the parapet of the bridge, closely followed by another bang as another large vehicle broadsided them, effectively blocking his escape. Although the car’s reinforced structure held, the lock was sufficiently buckled to prevent Mycroft’s exit, even had the van not been in the way. His first thought was that this was a targeted attack, that someone was after him. Then he heard the screams, and the gunfire….


	2. If Possible, Retire to a Safe Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg risks his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in a grave situation in which we find ourselves. This began as a prompt on a lighter note, but ended, as some plot bunnies do, on a more serious level. Hope no one minds that the story has taken a distinctly serious turn. Those boys will never just do as they're told... 
> 
> Kudos to our Fire Services, Army, CRC and SCO19 Police who do their best to keep us safe amid rising odds, and everyone in the emergency services in this country. You do a fucking amazing job.

“Barker? Aran, answer me. Are you alright?” Mycroft called to his driver. There was no reply and no sign of the man beyond the privacy screen window. “I heard shots fired…" He wrestled to get his seat belt off. "God's sake, man...can you hear me?”

Mycroft tried to remember what had happened. Everything was a bit hazy. There had been a sharp jolt, he had been thrown sideways and the vehicle had spun. Barker had obviously tried to drive out of it, but had not succeeded, and the car had slammed up against the bridge, only to be hit again by another vehicle. The car's side airbags had deployed on impact, obscuring his vision out. Mycroft could hear screams and shouting, and sporadic gunfire coming from outside the vehicle. _This is London, for goodness' sake, not Gaza._ The police would respond soon. 

**00000000**

They were held up at a police cordon. Greg got out and joined the group of officers—police, fire service and ambulance—who were coordinating the incident. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Greg asked, trotting up to join them. "What do we know?"

"You are…?"

"Station Commander Greg Lestrade, Alpha One Two."

“Welcome to the madhouse, Lestrade,” the man said. Greg didn’t recognise him, but he was a Divisional Officer to go by his helmet insignia.

“Who’s leading this show?”

“I am,” said a familiar voice and Greg turned to see his Area Commander appear between the wagons. “CTC are calling it a terror attack,” Bradstreet said. “Two white vans crossed the bridge at 14.05, drove into pedestrians and rammed a couple of cars on the bridge. We’re currently trying to identify how many people are down. SCO19 are on it, both van drivers and one of their passengers are accounted for, but they missed the passenger from the second van. Reasonable to assume all of them were armed. It's not just here either, there have been multiple incidents reported across the area." 

“Christ. Are we safe?”

“Safe as can be. We’ve got armed police between us and the scene. There’s a couple of vehicles trapped, so better be ready to deploy the cutters and winches.” 

“We got people trapped in the vehicles?”

“Potentially. We don't yet know." Greg listened to the rest of the assessment and instructions for deployment once the all clear had been given, then went back to his teams. There were four engines from their station, and as Station Commander, he co-ordinated his teams’ efforts in the field. Thankfully, Greg’s radio came to life not long afterward. He listened to the message and then looked up at Sally. “That’s a green light, people, let’s get ready. Keep your eyes open and take care."

**0000000**

Mycroft risked a look through the window, lifting the airbag away. He couldn’t see much, but a look through the back window allowed him to see bodies lying on the pavement. Then movement, as a team of armed police appeared, securing the bridge. He watched them range across, checking people, sweeping the scene. There were already members of the public who had survived who were aiding those who needed it. Now it looked as though the immediate threat was eliminated, Mycroft tried to get out but was effectively hemmed in by the van. Someone knocked on his window and he jumped. 

"Anyone in there?"

He risked a peek under the airbag veil and saw an armed policeman in combat gear.

“Yes," Mycroft called, fumbling his ID out of his pocket. 

"Anyone else in the vehicle with you?” the voice barked.

“My driver…”

“Are either of you injured?”

“I’m not...not sure. My driver is not responding.”

“We need to get you out of the vehicle.”

“The doors are jammed.” He pressed his ID against the window. "Read it, please, officer." There was a pause. “I have to speak to the PM immediately,” Mycroft insisted.

“We’ll get you out, sir. Help is on the way. Just sit tight for me.”

**0000000**

"What's the delay," Greg asked, when the cordon still hadn't lifted. “I thought we got the green light to go in?”

"There's a problem with one of the vans. SO19 are checking it out.”

"Well, I wish they'd bloody hurry up…" another officer muttered. "What are they looking for? Escape routes?"

“Explosives,” Greg said, soberly. “IEDs… Improvised Explosive Devices," he added, when one of the people nearby looked puzzled. "Saw plenty of those in Afghanistan." 

**0000000**

Mycroft dropped to the floor, hunting for his phone. As he swept a hand about in the gloom, trying—and failing—to locate the thing, he became aware of a sudden flurry of activity outside. He could hear protesting voices, and shouts, and when he looked out, he saw people being herded away from the area. Then everything went eerie quiet.

"Hello? What's happening?" Mycroft's shout fell on deaf ears.

**0000000**

"The vans are wired."

"Fuck me," Bradstreet muttered. "That's all we need."

The man who had brought the news, John Gregson, nodded. "Both of them, actually. We can't approach until we get the all clear. We might have to back off even further." 

"What about the people in the cars?" Greg asked. He could just see the black car jammed against the parapet of the bridge, pinned in place by the van. The front wing had damaged the wall of the bridge. Greg didn't think it would collapse, but he couldn't be sure at this range.

"We don't know if there are any…" 

"Actually, sir, we do." One of the Command Team approached them, leading another man dressed in black tactical combat gear. 

"Commander Bradstreet," the man said, "Inspector Treece, SCO19. Latest intel we have is that the person in the black car on the left of the bridge is very important indeed. We've had the PM on the blower, demanding action."

"Christ, that's all I bloody need. Who the fuck is it? Royalty?"

"Might as well be, the fuss they were causing. Name’s Mycroft Holmes. One of my lads saw his ID and we've had the PM's office confirming his identity. They want him out, now."

Bradstreet—Greg knew him better as Dave—rolled his eyes. "I can't prioritise one man over others. There are other casualties…" 

"Actually, sir, I can update you there as well. As of now there are no further casualties on the bridge. None who need help anyway. We've checked." 

Bradstreet glanced past at the carnage on the road. "What, you saying there's no one left alive out there?"

"All others have been evacuated."

"Shit. I can see at least six bodies...." 

"Eight, sir, and two unaccounted for. We think they may have gone over the side."

"What, into the water?"

"We've got the River Police on it. They've called in their divers…" 

**0000000**

“We wait for the Bomb Squad!” Bradstreet insisted pragmatically. “I am not risking any of my teams on extracting someone who is virtually sitting on a bomb.”

"Sir, this is a direct order from the PM…"

"I don't care if it's from the bloody Queen, I will not authorise any of my teams to go in until Bomb Squad get here." Bradstreet and Treece were facing off, Treece with his orders to rescue but with no appropriate equipment or experience to do the job, Bradstreet with his concern to keep his teams safe. It was a no-win situation. Neither man was backing down. 

"I can go over your head, Commander," Treece threatened.

"Then I suggest you do," Bradstreet countered.

"Let me do it." Both men turned towards Greg. 

"What?" 

"It's taking Bomb Squad an age to arrive," Greg argued. "That guy is alone out there, and he's trapped. I'll go."

"You have got to be kidding me. Have you got a death wish or something?" Dave asked. "I can't authorise that. Not for one man." 

"Not asking you to. I'm volunteering."

"Greg, no. It’s not an option.”

“Why not? Not as if I’m not used to this.” Treece looked inquiringly at him. “Served two tours in Afghanistan in the Regular Reserve,” he explained. “I was in the army when I was in my twenties. Joined the fire service when I left, stayed a Reservist afterward. So...tell me I’m not the best person for the job.”

“Greg...what about the gear? You’ll need an engine."

"Nope, I won't. I've been looking at the situation. All I’ll need is an axe, a window saw and a blanket."

"Will you stop going all MacGyver on me? Are you mental? At the very least you'll need the jaws…" but Greg shook his head.

"Look, it's a limo, and if Holmes is that important, the vehicle is almost certainly reinforced. It'll have ballistic glass, maybe blast shielding, maybe not, but either way, if that thing goes off, it’s likely to push the car over the edge and into the water, where it will sink very fucking fast, and whether or not Holmes survives the blast, he probably won’t survive the water. If, on the other hand, you let me get out there, I can have him out in a few minutes. I've done it before. Back window, open a hole, get the saw in and peel it back. The blades work fine on polycarbonate layering."

"You're nuts." 

"It's been said."

"We can have the ARV shadow you," Treece offered. "Get you both away once he's out. It'd be some protection from any blast."

“You’re condoning this?” Bradstreet asked, incredulous.

“We have our orders. If Officer Lestrade is willing…”

Bradstreet looked thunderous. “I do not agree with any of this.”

“Noted, Commander,” Treece said. “Meet me on the cordon,” he said to Greg.

"Done," Greg said, nodding to Treece. 

They went in the SCO19's armoured car. Greg was the first to jump out, and he paused to assess the damage, and the danger. The sharp smell of a fuel leakage reached his nose almost immediately. 

"Get that foam extinguisher we brought, and lay a layer under the back wheels here," he ordered the people who had come with him. "We'll have to make do with that as fire suppression."

“There’s a passenger in the back, and a driver, but the driver is non-responsive,” he was told by the SO19 officer who had got out behind him. 

“Whole thing is jammed against the bridge," Treece added helpfully. "Doors are compressed shut. No getting them open manually."

“Doesn’t matter, I'm looking at removing the back window, and getting him to climb out." Greg really hoped the man was not injured, otherwise this would be a nightmare. It was already going to be tricky. “Okay, get some cover laid down around there,” he ordered as two of the men began spraying foam. “Anywhere you see petrol spillage.”

Greg approached the rear of the vehicle, and knocked gently on the window, aware of his boots being steadily covered with foam. A worried face appeared around the dropped curtain air bag. The man looked pale and shaken. He was a city type, in his three piece pinstripe suit. With a chauffeured car, and in this vicinity, Greg considered the man was probably a politician, although he didn’t recognise him. _Just what makes you so damned important…?_

“Don’t worry, sir,” he called. “Just sit tight, we’ll have you out of there soon. Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so. I had my seat-belt fastened. Aran...my driver…He hasn’t answered me, but the partition screen was up and I can’t move it.”

“Okay, we’ll make sure somebody gets to him. We have instructions to extract you first....” 

"What do you mean, extract me first?"

"Exactly that. Now, we're going to remove the back window…"

"This car is equipped with bullet proof glass. You won't be able to penetrate it…”

“You let me worry about that, Mr Holmes," Greg said. "I need you to move as far away as possible, and cover your face for me. Understand? Can you do that?”

“Yes, but…what on earth…?”

“Just move to the front of the compartment, sir. We’ll do the rest.” 

All the time they were working, Greg was hyper aware of the explosive-packed van in close proximity. He sweated under his protective gear, aware it wouldn’t do him any good at all should that thing blow. _Not as if there’s anybody around to miss me_ , he reflected, pragmatically. He managed to work a hole in the rear window with his axe, wincing with every blow, and then he went in with the windshield saw. The angled blade cut through the layers of glass and laminate like butter. He cut through the left and right sides and the top, then, together with Treece, they grabbed the window in gloved hands and folded it down across the boot. A blanket was thrown over the jagged edges and he knocked as much of the rest of it out as possible.

“Mr Holmes, hello.” Greg grinned, trying to achieve reassurance as he saw the man properly for the first time. “This isn’t going to be very dignified, sir, but it’s necessary. I need you to climb out through the gap. Don’t worry, we can help you.” The man looked uncertain, but clambered onto the back seat readily enough. “Careful where you put your hands.” At any other time, Greg would have made light of that statement, but right now, he was feeling anything but light. He grabbed the man’s arm, and tugged him through, none too gently. 

Mycroft stared into his rescuer’s eyes. At any other time he would take delight in the dark brown eyes that stared back, but there was an unspoken urgency in them that Mycroft knew well. He needed to focus. He took the hands that extended to help, and tried to move quickly, despite the narrow gap. The man was not gentle, but Mycroft could forgive him considering the gravity of the situation. The moment his feet hit the ground, both he and his rescuer were bundled to the idling ARV with a "GO! GO! GO!" from the police escort. He had no idea why he was being hurried away, but he would find that out in due course. Right then, he knew he needed to help his rescuers, not hinder with unnecessary questions. He went as fast as he was able.


	3. Charity calendar Greg's photo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a wonderful pic from wastingyourgum, on Tumblr, seeing as how everybody wanted to buy the calendar Greg is posing for. Thank you so much, honey. It's wonderful.

[](https://wastingyourgum.tumblr.com/post/189592484903)


	4. Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all outcomes are good, but Greg thinks he's done okay. He is, however, a bit dense. Or at least, he draws the wrong conclusion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from of fluffy beginning this has taken a dive into the dark... Don't worry, I am aiming for a fluff-laden happy ending, I'm just going to make you work for it. This chapter is a bit whump on poor Mycroft, but don't worry, he's looked after.

Rotor blades thumped the air as they came to a halt behind the cordon line on the Westminster side of the bridge. Above them, circling in to land on the bridge, was a large Puma helicopter. Bomb Squad had arrived. To one side loomed the tower of Big Ben, and a scatter of emergency vehicles surrounded them, their crews milling about, awaiting orders or dealing with casualties. Occasionally, an ambulance set off, sirens wailing. Greg wondered what the death toll would be from this incident; at least eight dead, two missing, an unspecified number of casualties, and multiple incidents across the borough. 

“You might not want to get out just yet,” Greg said, sitting opposite the man he had just rescued. The rest of the men who had accompanied him had piled out, leaving them in relative peace. 

“What? Whyever not?”

“Cameras,” Greg qualified. “We just rescued a lone member of the public out of a trapped vehicle, someone whom the Press is going to want to know about. It’s just what they’re like,” he added. “Human interest, sells papers.”

“Quite," Holmes agreed, "but what do you suggest I do? I cannot stay here indefinitely. I have to contact the PM and I have no phone. I dropped it in the car."

"Can you remember the number? You can borrow mine," Greg said, holding out his own mobile. 

Holmes eyed the phone. "Thank you. I will need to arrange secure retrieval of the car. It has...security features that will require specialist handling."

"Including your phone."

"My phone is encrypted. I have no concern there. Should anyone try to access it without the necessary code, or tamper with it in any way, the circuits will fry and all data will be destroyed."

"A bit Mission Impossible, isn't it?"

"Necessary," Holmes replied. “I’m afraid I cannot say more.”

"Well, it might be a while before it can be retrieved anyway. It's a crime scene, but nobody can access the site until Bomb Squad have cleared it anyway."

"Pardon me? Bomb Squad?"

"Yes...oh, nobody told you?" _Jesus, that's why you're so fucking calm_ , Greg thought. _You didn't know the van was boobytrapped._ "The...er...the van that broadsided your car, it was filled with explosive. So was the other one." Holmes looked suitably shocked. "The PM requested you be rescued."

"So that's why you came alone?"

"Well, not exactly alone. I had a bit of help."

"You were the only fireman. Why? Were you ordered to go?"

"Nope. Our Incident Commander wouldn't authorise it. He wanted to wait for Bomb Disposal."

"Are you saying that you _volunteered_?"

"Somebody had to," Greg said, defensively. "I was the best choice." He was suddenly subjected to the full intensity of Holmes' stare. "Just doing my job," Greg mumbled under the scrutiny. "Couldn't leave you there."

"You're military, aren't you? No, ex-military. Reservist?" Greg nodded. "You would have to be, if you're a full-time fireman. Your bearing says military, and your hair too. You keep it cropped short, probably because you're used to wearing a helmet, in both professions. You most likely hold the view that no one should be left behind, nobody should be abandoned to their fate. You knew about the explosive when you rescued me, you worked efficiently and you were calm under pressure. Typical for fire personnel but even a fireman might get twitchy being so close to a bomb. No, you're familiar with such danger, ergo, army…. you are also divorced, only a couple of years ago…?"

"How the buggering fuck do you know all that?"

"Nothing mystical about it, I assure you. The pale band of skin on your ring finger tells me that. Faded, but still there. You've worn a ring for a long time. Perhaps she could no longer take the pressure of a husband in a dangerous job?" There was a pause, during which Mycroft became increasingly sure that he had gone a bit too far. "My apologies. I am told that I can be...too direct..." 

"That… was amazing."

"Pardon?"

"Seriously, brilliant."

"That's not what folk usually say." Holmes was hesitant, wary.

"What _do_ they usually say?"

"Piss off." His words elicited a chuckle, and Holmes allowed the ghost of a smile. "I'm sorry,” he said, “but I really need to find out what's happened to my driver…"

There was a tinge of urgency there, Greg noticed. The man cared, even though he might present an image colder than this morning's weather front to the outside world. Greg had seen different. "I'll try to find out about your driver, but humour me for a moment, Mr Holmes. We need to get you checked out by a medic…"

"I have told you already, I am fine," Holmes snapped, sinking back into frosty defensiveness again. "I was restrained by my seatbelt, I was not hit, I did not lose consciousness. Shaken, perhaps, but not injured." 

"Fair enough, but any vehicle crash can cause damage. It’s simply a matter of physics. The inertia from an abrupt stop can cause whiplash, not to mention internal damage. I would be negligent in my duty if I didn't suggest you get checked. I can’t force you to, but I still think you should allow a medic to check you over…" He received a glare, to which Greg grinned, open and disarming. Holmes blinked, startled.

"What _is_ your name?” Holmes demanded to know. "You haven't even introduced yourself properly yet."

"Oops, my bad," Greg said, with another grin, "Got a bit distracted, you know? I had a job to do, rescuing some bloke from a car…" His grin widened at Holmes' raised eyebrow.

" _Bloke_?" Holmes murmured. "Not an epithet most people would use to describe me."

"Yeah, well, I’m not _most people_.” 

“I had noticed.”

“Name’s Greg Lestrade, Station Commander, Alpha One Two.”

“Alpha One Two?”

“Station designation, sorry. I’m based at Soho. Look, Mr Holmes, I’m not suggesting you stay here any longer than necessary, but this area is in lockdown, and nobody is moving without ID anyway. So, sit tight, and _don't_ go anywhere. I expect you to be here when I get back, okay?"

Mycroft paused at the forceful manner. _Interesting_. “Commander Lestrade,” he said, turning on a commanding air of his own, “while I appreciate your efforts, I assure you they are completely unnecessary. Now, I really do need to find out what is happening concerning my driver…”

“Mr Holmes, please just stay put for a few minutes, that’s all I ask. At least allow me to go ahead and make sure the way is clear. I am quite sure you don’t want your face splashed all over the tele.”

Myroft paused. “No,” he admitted and forced a smile. “I...appreciate your foresight in that regard. If you could find out about my driver while you are out there?”

 _Third time he’s asked about his driver._ “I shall do my utmost, Mr Holmes, just please stay put until I get back. I'll only be five minutes.” 

Once outside, Greg scanned the area for people with cameras but there were none in the vicinity. Treece was standing near the bonnet of a second ARV parked a few yards away and Greg went to join him.

“Holmes is staying put while I make sure there are no cameras trained on this area.” Greg looked up, “or drones either.”

“Better be none of those,” Treece said, grimly. “Don’t think anyone would be that stupid but you never know. Wise idea to make Holmes stay put a while though. The BBC have set up over there, close as they can to the cordon. They’re not the only ones.” He indicated a rather large Press and TV presence to their left, currently shielded from view on the other side of the ARV. “I would suggest going nowhere near that,” he said, wryly.

“So, any news on the driver?”

“Driver? Oh, Holmes’ man, you mean? Dead, I'm afraid. Confirmed a few minutes ago. Bomb Squad saw the body, checked before they attempted anything with the van.”

“Any indication of cause?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid."

"Bugger...I was hoping…” Greg sighed. “Guess I should go break the news then.”

“You don’t have to. I can get one of my lads to do it...”

“No, it’s okay. I did say I would ask, after all.”

“How does he seem to you?”

“Quite...calm, really, for someone who has just been in an RTI. Didn't know about the bomb.”

"Ah, you told him?"

"I let it slip, yeah."

“Probably didn't take that well. So do you know anything about him?”

“No. Why? Should I?”

“Not really, no. Bit of an enigma is Mr Holmes. Some people rumour him to be the power behind the throne, as it were. He's in the Cabinet Office, takes tea with the Queen, but nobody knows exactly what he does."

"How do you know him?" 

"I've been on security detail to the PM a couple of times. Met him then, very briefly. Someone else had to tell me who he was. Seems to be some kind of senior advisor."

"No wonder the PM is keen to rescue him then.”

“He's a cold fish though. You know what they call him behind his back? The Iceman."

**0000000**

“You okay, sir?”

“I admit...I am not feeling my best.” Greg had got back to find the man looking a bit grey. "I'm afraid it came on shortly after you left." He handed back the phone. “Thank you for your help,” he said, swallowing back the urge to retch. 

“Are you fit enough to leave the car? Do you think you can walk?” 

Holmes turned toward him. “Do you know what became of my driver?” he asked, carefully. The look on Greg's face was transparent. "Ah...I see. Most unfortunate. Do you know what happened?"

"We don't know yet. I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. Did you know him well?"

"He was my driver," Holmes said, as if that explained it.

"Doesn't mean you didn’t know him," Greg replied. 

"I will, of course, make sure that his family are not left financially insecure by his passing. He has young children." 

Mycroft's call to the PM had not gone well. For one thing, he was starting to feel distinctly unwell. _The man is a buffoon,_ he thought, disparagingly, listening to the platitudes and the demands for Mycroft to present himself at his earliest opportunity and help sort the whole mess out. He rang off as soon as was politely possible, and called his colleague, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. 

"Good God, Mycroft. That was you?” She listened to his summary of events. “Yes, I've had it on the television since it began…. Oh, don't fret yourself. I shall wrangle our PM. That idiot can't fight his way out of a paper bag. Besides, he'll need Edwin to put his usual spin on the inevitable press conference. COBRA has been convened. Don’t worry, I shall attend. I shall call him as soon as we finish here, get the ball rolling.." Mycroft rang off with her injunction ringing in his ears to take the rest of the week off. 

Mycroft steeled himself for the inevitable as Greg came back to the ARV. The man's manner was revealing. Mycroft was feeling rather ill, now the adrenaline was wearing off. He mastered the urge to vomit with difficulty, and controlled his breathing as best he could. He watched the fireman swing himself into the vehicle and ask him if he was okay; he must look terrible. He heard Greg tell him that Aran was dead, then realised he had been asked another question.

"He was my driver," he heard himself saying, to Lestrade's question, feeling as though he were betraying Aran's friendship. The man _had_ been a friend. He heard himself saying that he would help the man's family, make sure they were safe, comfortable, not lacking for anything now their father was gone. _They're lacking a father_ , he heard his own voice in his mind, harsh and admonishing. _He's dead because of you._ He blinked. His focus was drifting. 

"Mr Holmes, I think we should get you checked over. I think this is probably delayed shock. Come on, come with me." Arms were around him, helping, supporting, lifting him to his feet. He staggered out of the ARV, stumbling as his feet hit the asphalt. They were heading toward a waiting ambulance when Mycroft felt his legs give way. There was a muttered curse, and then those same arms closed around him, preventing him from hitting the floor. The next moment, he was hoisted into a fireman's lift across the broad shoulders and he was carried the rest of the way.

 _Indignity be damned_ , Greg thought, catching the man as his legs— _those long elegant legs_ —gave out under him. _Damn it, Lestrade, keep your mind on the job_! True, the man was attractive, posh, and in control, but underneath that so-called Iceman image, he was also vulnerable, and far more deeply affected by the death of his driver than he was letting on, if Greg was any judge. 

"Bollocks," he muttered as Holmes' legs gave way and he had to catch him before he hit the ground. Greg slipped an arm under the man, lifted him up, and with the ease of long practice, hefted him into the classic fireman's lift across his shoulders. He carried the man the rest of the short way to the waiting ambulance.

**0000000**

Someone was calling his name. It came through a haze. He opened his eyes to see a green-clad paramedic looking at him with concern, and beyond him, the fireman… _Lestrade, that was his name_. 

"I...what happened?" 

"Hello there, my name’s Matt, I’m a paramedic. You fainted, sir,” the young man explained. “Just take things easy, don't try to get up. I’m just going to do some checks on you, just to make sure we don’t miss anything important." 

He was lying on the gurney in the back of the ambulance, and the doors were closed. He relaxed a little, aware that there was no one to witness his indignity except his rescuer and someone from the medical profession. Someone had removed his tie, opened his shirt, and covered him with a blanket. Nausea rolled through him.

"I think I'm going to…" was all he managed, before he was leaning over to retch. Surprisingly, there was a cardboard bowl under his nose, being held by the fireman, while the paramedic began hooking him up to a monitor of some kind as though nothing unusual was happening. _They probably see this sort of thing everyday_ , he thought.

"Done?" Greg asked. He received a nod, and Greg handed over tissues for Holmes to wipe his mouth. Matt handed over a bottle of water. 

"Swill your mouth out and spit into the bowl, " he suggested helpfully. "Try sipping the water if you can." 

Greg disposed of the bowl in the yellow hazardous waste bin on board, and found a fresh bowl, just in case. He straightened the orange shock blanket, tugging it almost to the man's chin. He knew his way around a fire engine better than an ambulance but most emergency personnel knew each other's vehicles and equipment moderately well enough to locate the obvious things. He took a seat beside Holmes' head, out of Matt’s way as the man gathered a few readings of Holmes’ vital signs. 

Mycroft was miserably aware of losing his dignity in front of the most attractive man he’d met in a long time, who was currently sitting by his head, taking an active part in his care. Lestrade was older than Mycroft by a few years, but not as old as his silvering hair suggested. He had also, Mycroft’s observant brain supplied, shed his outer protective jacket and was clad in just a black form-fitting cotton t-shirt above the trousers. The garment did a terrible job of hiding the still-muscular body beneath it. 

Normally, this kind of happenstance mortified Mycroft. He hated showing weakness of any kind, although, Lestrade was obviously concerned. Moreover he had stayed, when he could simply have handed Mycroft over to the ambulance personnel and gone back to his team. 

“Feeling any better?” Greg asked.

“A little. I feel the need to apologise…"

"What for?"

"You did urge me to allow a medical professional to check my state of health."

The man smiled. "Yeah, I know. I'm used to being ignored, don't worry." The smile took the sting out of the words. 

"Well, your vitals are okay," Matt offered. "I don't think there's anything else majorly wrong. You've avoided severe injury by wearing your seatbelt but you may find you've got bruises where the belt restrained you, that's normal. Don't be surprised if you find you've stiffened up tomorrow. Take things easy tomorrow. Take the day off. You've been through a traumatic time, so just go home and rest. Any ill effects, call 111 for advice."

"I shall, thank you." 

"For now, just rest a bit where you are. Take things slowly. There’s no rush." He turned to Greg. "Keep an eye on him for a few, I'm just going to get the paperwork." 

Mycroft looked at Greg once the door had closed. "You carried me here," he stated. 

"Had to. Sorry…"

"Your turn to stop apologising. Thank you, Commander."

"Greg, please."

"Mycroft," said Mycroft, reaching out a hand. Greg shook it warmly. "No, I mean it,” Mycroft emphasised. “Thank you. It's not every day someone risks their life for mine." Both men let their grasp linger longer than strictly necessary. They both looked down at their clasped hands. _This feels...pivotal,_ Greg considered, lifting his eyes to look into Mycroft’s. _Now or never…_ Picking his words carefully, he hoped Mycroft would appreciate a direct approach. "Mycroft, I…" At that moment his radio chose to crackle to life. _Seriously?_

"Alpha One Two, Watch Commander Donovan to Station Commander Lestrade, over."

"Bollocks," Greg swore, letting go of Mycroft’s hand and hanging his head in mock defeat. "They've found me." He thumbed the radio. "Lestrade, go ahead."

"What’s your location, sir? Over.”

"Ambulance, near Big Ben, over."

"Christ...are you ok? Over."

"I'm fine, just...accompanying a patient, over." He caught Mycroft's gaze and offered up a reassuring grin.

"Wondering when you were planning on rejoining us, sir. Over."

"Unsure at this time. Stand by. Over." There was a pause. Greg looked at Mycroft again. “I should get back. They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”

“Please, I’ve kept you long enough, but could I trouble you for your phone one more time?”

“Of course.” Greg handed it over and watched Mycroft dial. Whoever it was picked up quickly.

“Anthea? Yes, my dear, I am fine.…” There was a verbal tirade that cut him off, and he listened, patiently. Greg smiled. You didn't have to heard the words to understand the tone behind them. Well, that was revealing. He felt a pang of disappointment. Mycroft was by far the most attractive man he’d come across since his marriage fell apart two years ago. He'd honestly thought there might have been a spark of interest there. Greg sighed a little regretfully, but he was honestly glad he had managed to return Anthea’s husband to her unscathed at least. There were plenty who wouldn’t be going home tonight, lots of families experiencing loss or coming to terms with life changing injuries. He tried not to listen in, but it was hard not to hear as Mycroft broke the news about his driver’s death. Anthea was obviously upset about it, and in his turn, Mycroft took care to reassure her he would find out what had happened. 

“Yes, my dear,” Mycroft said, “if you could send a car. I will arrange for it to be allowed through.” He glanced at Greg to see...something in the man’s eyes. “Thank you, my dear...yes, I understand. Thank you…” He rang off, a fond look in his eyes as he stared at the phone. Anthea was relieved if her tirade was anything to go by. She had admonished him for not letting her know that he was out of danger sooner, considering their call had been cut off abruptly when he had lost hold of the phone. He appreciated that she had spent several hours not knowing what had happened, and she must have been following the news on television. She assured him she would liaise with Lady Smallwood and told him to go home and rest, as per instructions. She also reassured him she would reschedule his workload and free up the next few days so he could take time off. He turned back to Greg, to ask him what he had been about to say, but the man was getting ready to go, shrugging his jacket back on. 

“Glad you got through to her,” Greg said. “Did she give you a hard time?”

“No more than I deserved. Anthea has my best interests at heart, but she can be...somewhat forceful.”

Greg grinned, accepting his phone back. “That would describe most of my colleagues’ partners,” he said, "my ex- included. Always gave me a hard time when I got myself in hot water.”

“I imagine water was not the problem in your case,” Mycroft replied. Greg laughed at the witticism. 

“Actually, you might be surprised. We use a Hell of a lot of it. Admittedly not much of it is hot though. Look, I’d best be off or my team will think I’ve gone awol. You’ll be okay now.” He opened the ambulance door and stepped down, making way for Matt's return. 

"You off then, mate?" the paramedic asked.

"Yeah. My team is trying to find me. They're convinced I've run off to join the circus."

"They'd be right then," Matt replied, grinning at him.

"Piss off," Greg retorted, smiling broadly. He raised a hand. "Bye, Mr Holmes. Nice meeting you. Get yourself home safe, back to your wife…”

“Wife?” Mycroft was momentarily thrown… _Oh, OH! That was why Greg had looked… disappointed?_ "Oh, no...I...no, Anthea is…” but Greg had gone, walking quickly away from the ambulance, “not my wife,” Mycroft said to thin air. “Damn…” 

He stayed silent while Matt filled in the paperwork, buttoning his shirt and waistcoat back up, shivering in the cold air that had rushed in when Greg left. He put the blanket back around himself, aware that he may have just missed a golden opportunity.


	5. Bonfire of the Vanities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg asks a friend for advice

"What the Fuck, Greg!" Greg turned at the angry voice to face off his watch commander who had been simmering all the rest of that day. Sally had been silent on his return. He had caught up with his teams as they were packing up ready to leave, jumping on board with the first crew to vacate the area. She had cast him a black look and climbed pointedly into the second wagon. On arrival, Greg had gone straight to his office to write his report, and hadn't seen her until their watch finished. She rounded on him in the car park.

"Seriously, what were you thinking? You _volunteered_?"

"Someone needed to, and I was their best choice."

"Fuck me up, Greg, those vans were _boobytrapped_! They could have blown up at any time. You could have been…" Words failed her. She shook her head, biting her lip. "You didn’t tell us. You didn’t even send us a fucking message. You didn’t communicate with _me_ , your own Watch Manager. For God’s sake, I had to go looking for you! Why, Greg? Why do you do this?"

"Do what?" 

"Urgh! This!” She flung up her hands. “Putting yourself in danger like this."

"It's the job," he protested.

"No, it really isn't," she countered. "You do this all the time. First in, last out, never a thought for yourself. It's not healthy, Greg." 

"Why are you so knotted up about how I do my job, Sal? I don't let anything impact on you guys. Besides, not as if anyone would miss me."

"What? That's not true and you know it. What about your family?"

"Not much of it left. I've a homophobic cunt of a half-brother I never speak to, and a bunch of cousins in France who don't know me. I can't speak French anyway. I'm divorced, and I very much doubt Nicki would miss me considering she ran off with her Pilates instructor who is at least 20 years my junior. No kids either, thank God..." Sally sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Sal, I'm not on anybody's Christmas list…"

"Greg, you might think you're not on anyone's Christmas list, which is untrue by the way, because you're on mine and Jenny's and Phil's and Pauline’s, but you don't deserve to think you don't matter. I have no idea what goes on in your head, but I don't like what I'm seeing. Get yourself some counselling. I'll see you on Monday." She got in her car, slammed the door, and drove off, leaving him standing. 

He watched her go before climbing into his BMW and setting off for home. Well, that was a turn up. Sally was an excellent Watch Commander; she was well organised and self assured, a confident leader and a good officer in the field. Greg knew she was one of the best. She was not usually so... _demonstrative_. She did not wear her heart on her sleeve.

**0000000**

Mycroft groaned as the aches and pains made themselves manifest when he woke in the morning. His comfortable bed made no difference. _At least_ , he thought, _I am not at work_. Examining himself in the bathroom mirror proved a mistake. He was bruised, his eyes were shadowed, and he looked...old. Worn. Exhausted. He spent as little time as possible in the bathroom, attended to the necessities and then took himself back to his bed. His phone chimed with a text as he settled back under the covers. He opened his phone up and found that Elizabeth Smallwood was trying to contact him.

**PM is being stubborn. Can I promise him you will be in evidence by Sunday?**

Mycroft eyed the text critically. 

**I am not going to be in evidence until Monday. I am now suffering the consequences of the incident. Please extend my thanks for his insistence that I be rescued, then tell him it was a bloody stupid move. He put people at risk.**

There was a pause before her reply. When it came, his words had been tactfully adjusted..

**I shall extend your thanks, and tell him the move was inadvisable given the level of risk. I will tell him not to expect you until Monday. Are you alright?**

Mycroft huffed, irritably. _No, I am not alright_ , he thought morosely. He needed painkillers and sleep, not some moron demanding his presence as if nothing had happened. 

**Given the circumstances, I am as well as it is possible to be. Thank you for asking.**

Before he settled again, he texted Anthea to ask for a particular contact name. 

**00000000**

Greg lay on his back staring at his ceiling and thinking, not for the first time, that the shade on his light was ugly. He really needed new stuff. It was two years since he had moved in and his flat was the flat of a man who didn't care about anything or anyone, not even himself. _That can't be right, can it?_ Maybe Sally was correct in her assumptions. _Am I really seriously that bad?_ Greg tried to go through the last couple of years in his head, rerunning the major incidents he had attended through his mind's eye. 

There was that chip pan fire in Falmouth Mews, last summer. Nearly killed a toddler, as well as the family dog and two guinea pigs… _Yes, I was first in. We had to act fast. What else could I have done?_

The pile up on the embankment. A car flipped onto its roof, trapping the driver, and her ten month old in the back. The car was leaking petrol, there was a high chance it could ignite. _So I was the one saved the kid, so what? Anyone would have_. 

There were many, many shouts he and his team had been on, and there was not one of his fellow officers who Greg could think of didn't display the same bravery, dedication and devotion to duty that he did. It was all part of it, just as the army had entailed everything from dangerous patrols to messy latrine duty to boring inventory paperwork. 

He had risen to Captain, and was proud of his achievement. The army had given him a family, a sense of belonging, a purpose. Civilian life gave him a career, and a future. He had left the army in order to preserve his marriage, and changed his career successfully, although much good that had done him in the long run. However, he was, for the most part, content, but he was lonely. It was a small price to pay, on balance. He had a fulfilling job, a roof over his head, food on the table. Plenty of folks had a lot less. 

Greg really wasn't sure what Sally was getting at. _Have I changed so much?_ He was under the impression that he had always been a bit Gung Ho, it was a holdover from his soldiering, but he wasn’t reckless... _Am I?_ Reckless was putting his team in danger, putting the people he was trying to rescue at risk. He never did that. Frustrated, he got up to make himself tea, fighting a losing battle with sleep. Nothing for it, he needed a second opinion, and what's more, he knew exactly the right doctor to ask.

**00000000**

“Here is the contact you wanted, sir,” Anthea said, handing over a piece of paper. “I’m sorry to call on you on a weekend but Lady Smallwood asked me to check that you were still in the land of the living. Her words, sir. I thought I may as well drop off the details you asked for at the same time.”

“It’s quite alright, Anthea. I do understand. In truth, I am quite alright, but I am not at anybody's beck and call, least of all our erstwhile prime minister.” He walked to the drinks cabinet. “Can I get you anything? I have a passable sherry…”

“No, thank you.” There was a slight pause. “How are you really, Mycroft?” There were few times Anthea would use his first name; in private, unmonitored, and when she was worried. He could count the times she had done so on the fingers of one hand and still have room. “I was...honestly, I thought…” Their eyes met, hers most obviously worried, his understanding. 

He nodded. “I am...eternally grateful for your unswerving loyalty and service, my dear. It was a fateful day when you came into my sphere and I will always be thankful that you accepted the job. Rest assured, in this case, as far as it is possible to be, I am fine. I was medically checked at the scene and I am recovering, albeit with a little discomfort. Mercifully it is quite little.” 

“That’s...good. Thank you, sir. Shall I inform Lady Smallwood?”

“You can. Please inform her that I am still in the land of the living and I shall be in my office on Monday. Now, please, go and enjoy what is left of the weekend. Thank you for bringing me this.” He looked at the paper. 

“Should you wish to nominate someone, you could also try the PMs Principal Private Secretary, Peter Blythe. I should think the PM owes you by now,” she said, with a small smile. “Mr Blythe sits on the HD Committee, the Honours and Decorations Sub-committee that decides the Queen’s Honours List. He might be your best starting point, although the info on the paper is for the chair of the same group.”

“Thank you. Now go, enjoy your weekend.”

0000000

Greg walked into the pub and straight to the bar, wasting no time in ordering a couple of pints, one for himself and one for the man he was meeting. He scanned the room, finally spotting him across the room, perched on a stool, nursing his own pint. 

“John, how are you, mate?” Greg placed both glasses down on the table and thrust out a hand to shake. 

“Greg. Good to see you. How are you keeping?” John half-stood and grabbed the offered hand, grinning warmly. 

“Not bad. Not bad. It’s been too long, mate. You okay?”

“Yeah, life is...a bit mad, actually. It’s good though.”

“That’s okay though, yeah?” Greg took a pull at his pint. “So what have you been up to then?”

“Moved in with a madman,” John said, grinning like an idiot and starting in on his second pint.

“That makes two of you then?” Greg joked. “Seriously, John, who is he?”

“He’s a ‘consulting detective’. Madman, as I said. He’s eccentric as all hell, but he’s clever. Works with the police on solving cases. We’re sharing a flat in Baker Street.”

“Professional madman then?”

John chuckled. “Hardly. He’s brilliant though. Genius level intellect. Has a brain like a computer. Makes connections and solves cases like they were kids’ puzzles and somehow drags me along for the ride. No idea why he wants me there, considering I’m a goldfish by his standards. Everybody else is thick as two short planks, next to him.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it bad, John.”

Far from being offended, John laughed. “Well, you know me, Greg. Never one to turn away a looker…”

“Oh, so he’s a looker, is he, this madman? Okay, _Five Continents Watson_. I get it. You’ve set your sights on this one then?”

“Possibly, if he’d see what’s in front of his face.”

“I see. Genius at criminology, thick as a brick when faced with a relationship?”

“Understatement,” John said. “Anyway,” he said, turning his focus on Greg. “Enough about me. What did you really want to talk about, Greg?”

“Am I that transparent?”

John grinned again. “Well, you contact me out of the blue, and ask me to go for a drink, and while I know we get on, we were never that close, so…”

"Sounds like your flatmate’s ability is rubbing off on you. Okay, John, it’s a fair cop. You got me. It’s nothing much really...just something my Watch Commander said to me. It’s got me thinking.”

“Worried, more like,” John said. “Looking at your expression. So what did he say?”

“She. She told me...well, I’d better start at the beginning.”

“Let me get another round first, my shout.”

0000000

“So, that’s everything. Sal thinks I’ve developed a deathwish or something. I’m not sure anymore. I mean, to me, it’s what we do. We’re all willing to go above and beyond, John. I’m no different than any of the rest of the crew. Was I ever that bad when we were in Bastion?”

“I don’t recall you being particularly reckless. Nobody had a bad word to say about you. You were the life and soul, Greg. You kept everyone else boyed up, but reckless you were not.”

“She thinks I don’t care about myself, or what happens to me.”

“And do you?”

“Since Nicki, not a lot, no. I took a hit when she went, lost my confidence. I mean, doesn’t make you feel great when your wife ups and disappears with a younger man. I need new clothes, and my flat needs new kit, I just haven’t cared about any of it. I mean, why bother? There’s just me.” 

“So, when you volunteered...to go on the rescue, you knew about the IED? Did that trigger anything? Memories? Feelings?”

“Not a lot, truth to tell. I dunno, I’ve never had PTSD, John. I’m not depressed. I left the army, remained in the Reserves, became a fireman, never looked back. I’m one of the lucky ones, I guess.”

“Apart from the divorce?”

“Apart from that, yeah, but that happens to a lot of people. Look, even that...I got past it, John. Or I thought I had.”

“You dating right now?”

“No, not really. I’ve had a few flings but nothing more permanent. Not ready for that yet.”

“So why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“The rescue?”

“Oh...because…”

“Because?” John had to wait while Greg considered. 

“I thought I was the best person for the job.”

“Anyone could have done it though. Surely you can’t be the only one who could have rescued him.”

“Not at all, but...I’m army, John. I’m used to the pressure.”

“Why did you really do it, Greg?” 

“You don't believe me?”

“Come on, this is me. Why did you volunteer for a _very_ dangerous job? Neither of us is unaware of what happened out there, of what could have happened. You put yourself in danger. Why?”

“Honestly, I don’t really know. I heard them say that the guy in the car was trapped, on his own, with an IED primed and ready to blow. And I thought...I remember thinking, I can’t let anyone else do this. I have no family worth a damn, I’m unattached, no kids, no dependents, nothing. Nobody to really miss me.”

“Was that the only reason?”

“I really don’t know. Sally accused me of doing this a lot, of being first in and last out and not caring about myself or believing I was worth something. 'You don’t deserve to think you don’t matter,' she said to me, and I have no idea if she’s right. Any of our team could do what I did, and I can’t think of anyone on our team who isn’t a brave, skilled, and dedicated professional. Seriously, anyone was capable of doing what I did but...I just...I thought, bomb, army situation, let me at it.” 

“I think maybe you miss it? You know, the rush, the adrenaline…”

“Maybe I do. Is that bad?”

“If it becomes obsessive, yes. Although, I think I’m the same. Running after Sherock, that gave me back my purpose, not to mention my self esteem. Maybe for you it’s rescuing people from unexploded bombs.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t actually want to do that again. It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. If that thing had blown, we'd have all been dead, no question. The blast would have pulped us, never mind the shrapnel. It's not like I don't know the consequences, John. I guess I just didn't want to watch it happen to anyone else."

"Maybe like me, you've seen enough of it to last a lifetime, but…"

"But?"

"Now and again, you want it back…"

**0000000**

"So, you have someone you'd like to nominate for a gallantry award. Not like you, old man."

Mycroft regarded the speaker with indifference. "I have never had occasion to warrant it," he replied.

"So who is the recipient?"

"Recipients, plural, Peter. Station Commander Gregory Lestrade, London Fire Brigade, Soho Station. He got me out of the dangerous situation I found myself in on Westminster bridge last Friday…"

"Oh, of course. You were caught up in that. What exactly happened?" Peter Blythe listened as Mycroft gave him the events that lead to his rescue. 

"In simple, Lestrade was aware of the IED in the van, and he still volunteered to go on the rescue team. He was the only fireman. You might think to find out who was on the SCO19 team who accompanied him with a view to some kind of award. They were all part of it, but Commander Lestrade volunteered his services. Also, my driver, Aran Barker. Unfortunately it will have to be awarded posthumously. He died at the scene. Although he did his best to drive me to safety, he tried evasive maneuvers, but he lost his life. I am still awaiting the results of the post mortem to find out the cause of death.”

“Well, dear boy, it shouldn’t be a problem. The PM is obviously grateful for your input concerning this incident. I shall, of course, look into it all for you.”

“Greatly appreciated, Peter. I shall leave it in your capable hands.” 


	6. Advice is Sought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's party proves to Greg that this is rather a small world.

"I beg your pardon? What did you say?"

"You're up for a bravery award, Lestrade. Queen's Gallantry Medal." 

"Seriously?"

"Your stunt on the bridge seems to have drawn attention."

Greg sighed. "Bugger…Look, can't you tell them no? I don't want it, Dave."

"Can't exactly do that, now can I?"

"But people will think that's why I did it, and I didn't. Seriously, why do people have to go do that?"

"Maybe because you deserve it?"

"So do all the teams. It's not just me." 

"If it helps, the SCO guys who were with you are up for one as well."

"Should bloody think so too. Well, don't expect me to go to any ceremony to collect it. I'm not parading about in uniform at the palace like a loony. Not for all the tea in China."

“What’s up, boss?” Sally asked, hearing the door slam on the Group Commander’s office. She watched Greg march into the canteen and followed him. He didn’t speak until the kettle was on and coffee was spooned into two mugs together with an appropriate amount of sugar.

“‘M up for a brav’ry ‘ward…” he mumbled.

“Sorry, Greg, you’re what? Didn’t quite catch that?”

“Up for a bravery award…”

“Really? That’s...good, isn’t it?” she suggested tentatively. He rounded on her. 

“No, it really isn’t!"

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because?”

“ _You’re all brave_ , that’s why. Everybody deserves an award. I don't feel right being singled out."

“Boss, you deserve it, honest. Which incident is it for?”

“The bridge.”

“Okay, so...someone appreciates what you did there.”

“Yeah, but seriously, it’s the job. We all do it.”

“I heard Bradstreet wouldn’t endorse that shout, but you went anyway.”

“Yes, I did. Someone had to. That guy was alone…”

“Boss, you did good. Just accept it.”

“Sally, you had a go at me for doing just that.”

“No, Boss, I had a go at you for thinking you don’t matter, for putting yourself at risk all the damned time. The fact that you did it, that’s different. Still takes guts, even if you don’t care what happens to you. You still risked yourself to save someone. You deserve the award, so suck it up and accept it. Okay if you feel like you need to accept it on behalf of all of us, you do that if you want to, but you deserve it anyway.” 

**000000**

“Sir?”

"Yes, Anthea?"

“The HD Committee have approved the award you suggested.”

“Really? That was expeditious.”

“I think it was suggested to the PM that a speedy resolution to your request would be politic, given the recent events.”

“Hm, I think perhaps he is treating me with kid gloves after the...incident on the bridge. Anthea?”

“Sir?”

“Station Commander Lestrade, what do we know about him?”

“I can do a full background check, if you wish, sir.” Anthea paused, waiting. She knew her boss very well, and whenever he showed interest in someone, there were very few reasons. It would be important, whatever the reason.

“Nothing too in depth, there is no reason to waste resources. I would simply like to know if there are any...problems.”

“Certainly, sir. Is there a deadline?”

“As soon as possible, thank you, Anthea.”

She walked out of the door to her own desk in the outer office, and fired up her computer, hoping she wouldn’t find anything of concern. She had a hunch that her boss had found someone he was interested in and she would move heaven and earth to prove that the target of his affections was worthy of them. Or not, as the case may be, but she would be honest about it.

Mycroft watched her go, wondering what she thought of his request. He knew she would do a thorough job, no questions asked. Anthea was always efficient, always thoughtful, always thorough. If she was wondering why he had requested she look into Lestrade’s background, she would never ask. Mycroft wasn’t sure why he had asked, come to that. It was not as if he expected to see the devastatingly handsome firefighter again. 

He went back over their meeting in his head, rerunning the events, wondering if he had misunderstood the signs. _Lestrade called my deductions brilliant, and nobody has ever done that before_. The man had a good sense of humour and an innate sense of leadership, comfortable with command. He also had a strong stomach and a compassionate manner, _if his care of me was any indicator_. _He was instrumental in getting me to medical help and he had stayed to offer support too, unflinching in his devotion_. That hand shake, where Lestrade had seemed not to want to let go, when they had looked into each others eyes and Lestrade had been about to speak. Mycroft remembered the moment the radio message from his team had interrupted, trying to locate him. _Lestrade’s expression had been...defeated, frustrated?_ Mycroft wondered what he had been about to say. _Had Greg Lestrade really looked disappointed when he misunderstood who Anthea was?_ Mycroft found he was left with more questions than answers.

**0000000**

“Greg, mate, it’s me, John.” The call had come just as Greg arrived through his door that evening.

“John, what’s this in aid of?” he replied, shucking off his jacket and toeing off his shoes. "If it's going to take long though, could you give us ten? I just got in." In truth, Greg was happy to hear from the doctor. So soon after their last meeting was unusual. 

“Won't take long, don't worry. Just wanted to see if you fancied to come over, meet the mad flatmate…”

“Yeah, sure. When did you have in mind?”

“Well, it’s my 40th birthday on Friday and Sherlock wants to throw me a little party. There’ll be a couple of people you know, from the Regiment, but not many. I’d like for you to come. What about it, Seven in the evening okay?”

“Should be. White Watch knocks off around five, barring emergencies.”

“Great, see you then. Bring beer, please. I doubt Sherlock will have thought about that.”

“Not very good at organising a party then?”

“He’s not very good at the social side of things, to be honest. This is a bit of a surprise. I think he's adding to his own experience.”

“Count me in then. I’ll fetch beer. We can celebrate my nomination for a bravery award too.”

“Bravery award? Bloody Hell. Was that from the bridge thing?”

“Yup. Some dick has put me in for it. Truth to tell, wish they hadn’t. I hate the limelight.”

“You deserve it, Greg. Suck it up and accept.”

“That’s what Sally said.”

“Sensible woman.”

“Yeah, you and my Watch Commander would get on like a house on fire.”

“Is that a thing with firefighters?”

“Is what a thing?”

“Fire puns?”

“Dunno. Maybe we have a flare for it?" John groaned and rang off before things could get any worse. 

**0000000**

“Brother dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I’m...calling to ask advice…” Mycroft paused on hearing his younger brother actually ask for his help. It wasn't unknown, just very unusual.

“Advice? In what regard?”

“My...um...my flatmate turns forty this friday. I...I want to hold a small gathering…”

“A party? How thoughtful of you.”

“That’s the problem.” There was a pause. “I have no idea what to do. You used to arrange very good birthdays for me...”

Mycroft smiled. Since John Watson had come on the scene, his brother had mellowed somewhat. He was more grounded, balanced. Assuredly, he was still chaotic. Mycroft had lost count of the times he had bailed them both out of jail for misdemeanours gained in the course of Sherlock’s detecting work, but… on balance, John was keeping his brother occupied, his mind was not left to tear itself to shreds in search of stimulation, and he was more sociable, a feat in and of itself. He was also staying away from drugs.

All through his teenage years, into his early twenties, Mycroft had despaired of Sherlock ever reaching thirty. His addiction to class A drugs, his antisocial behaviour...It had taken Mycroft precious resources in time, money, and his own peace of mind to sort his wayward brother out. It took a certain detective inspector in the Met, Stuart Dimmock, to agree to work with him to get him back on track. Dimmock had demanded that Sherlock got himself off the drugs and stayed off them, which he did, and their connection gave him purpose. Dimmock had seen something in the lad, and the DI had remained true to his word, allowing the now-clean young man to offer his skills. By Sherlock’s choice he had never taken the credit, the work itself was enough, although he took private cases that paid very well. Mycroft had always maintained an overwatch, but he had relaxed a little in recent years. Now, if only Sherlock would realise John’s infatuation and do something about it, Mycroft’s continued peace of mind could be assured. 

“Worry not, Brother. I can give you more than enough advice. You must buy an appropriate cake, for one thing. If it’s his 40th, it should be something significant then…and decorations for the flat...One moment, I shall see if I can rustle up a car for this afternoon. You and I shall go shopping.” 

**0000000**

Greg hopped off the tube and hurried up Baker Street, cradling the bag to his chest containing the beer and John’s present. He was actually looking forward to the party, despite not knowing many who were attending. John had said that a couple of the lads from the regiment would be there, but had not specified who. On balance if one of them wasn’t Murray, it would be a surprise. Findlay Murray was an old mate of John’s from before Greg had met the doctor. He had been more John’s mate than Greg’s, but he at least knew the man well enough to talk to. Besides, not knowing anyone else at a party had never stopped him from enjoying a few beers and a party atmosphere. He located the address quickly and knocked on the door, wondering what John’s flatmate would be like. An older lady dressed in a purple frock and a polka dot apron answered the door, beaming when he said his name.

“Come in, come in. The lads are upstairs, so go on up. Would you tell them I’ll be there in a jiffy. I’m just baking biscuits. I'm Martha Hudson by the way, I'm their landlady.”

Upstairs, there was a hum of conversation, and Greg was greeted by a Happy Birthday banner hung haphazardly on the door. He knocked, and was greeted with a rather lovely young woman in a posh black dress, her hair piled on her head in cascading waves. Greg stared. Round surprised eyes took him in. “Greg? What are you doing here?” Molly Hooper asked.

“I’m a mate of John’s. I could ask you the same.” 

She grinned delightedly. “I’m a friend of John’s too. He works at Barts. Met him last year.”

“Well, small world. So, I brought beer, as per request. Anywhere I can put it?"

"Oh, best put that in the kitchen. There's a fridge, but you'd better check it for body parts…"

"Body parts?"

"Oh, er, it's nothing sinister, don't worry. It's just Sherlock. He experiments...oh, that didn't come out right." 

Greg laughed. "Sorry," he said. "Not laughing at you. Pity it's not Halloween." 

“Who’s your new friend, Molly?” a tall man interrupted, turning piercing aquamarine eyes on Greg. Unruly dark hair framed a sharp featured face, and a lanky frame wrapped itself in a hug around the young woman beside him. She sighed, long suffering.

"Sherlock," she chided. "Where's John. This is Greg, one of his friends."

The man looked him over, assessing. "Ah, yes, the firefighter," he said, eyes darting. "Recently divorced from your wife, she cheated on you, so you left her. You're ex-army, turned to a new career...You live alone, you want a pet but haven't got one, probably due to your job, unsociable hours…You're a little reckless, but it's not too much an issue…"

"How in heaven's name…John told you." Sherlock shook his head, grinning. 

"Greggy, you got here. This daft git been doing his trick on you?" John grinned, clapped him on the back and grabbed the bag, hearing the clinking within. "You brought beer. That's awesome. Let's get these babies in the cooler. I don't trust the fridge..."

"Nice to be here, John. Don't worry, Molly just warned me about the fridge. Um...what Trick?"

"Deduction, he calls it. He sees stuff. Brilliant he is, brilliant."

"I merely observe," Sherlock said. "The military haircut is obvious, even though John did tell me that's how he knew you. Your eyebrow is slightly singed, which suggests you're a little reckless around fire, either that or you simply disregard its threat, which I doubt, given your profession. Firefighters do not usually disregard fire, they respect it. What else? The pet. Yes, there are cat hairs on your cuff, which suggests you have recently petted a cat, because you like them. People don't usually pet animals unless they like them."

"How do you know I don't have a cat?"

"No hairs on your trousers. I'd expect at least a few, cats usually weave around their owners feet, but your trousers are clean, suggesting no cat of your own. Your wife…" he paused, exchanging a glance with John. "Sorry, not good…"

"No, it's okay. How did you know?"

"Wedding ring."

"Not wearing one."

"I know, but the indentation is there. It takes a while to leave. You don't wear the ring, no chain around your neck. People are sentimental, if she'd left you, or died, you might still have worn it. You don't whìch suggests you left her, probably because she cheated. Something tells me probably because of the stresses of your job…"

"Amazing. Easy to see why you work with the police." 

"Tell him to piss off if you want," John said. "People do."

"Not me. That's a real skill, mate." It also reminded him of Mycroft, the same way he deduced Greg’s past, like he was an open book. 

"You want a beer?" John asked.

Greg nodded. “Lead on.”

“So, does Sherlock have a brother?”

John laughed. “Why do you ask?” He cracked a can and handed it to Greg, breaking open another for himself. 

“Just...that thing he did. I’ve had two people do that to me within a fortnight. The guy I rescued on the bridge, he told me the same things about myself that Sherlock did…”

“Did he have a name, the man on the bridge?”

“Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. What?” he said, because John had suddenly spluttered his beer and looked at him in surprise. 

“Mycroft Holmes? Christ, there can’t be two people in London with that name. So you rescued Mycroft Holmes.”

“Who the fuck is he? How do you know him?” Greg asked.

“Brother Dear?” At that moment a familiar voice came from the door, and Greg peered out the kitchen door to see Mycroft standing in the living room. 

“Mr Holmes?” Greg said, startled.

“Station Commander Lestrade? What on earth are you doing here?” Mycroft smiled. “I wasn’t aware this event was big enough to require a fire certificate.”

“What? How do you know my brother?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“I rescued him,” Greg said. “Westminster Bridge, last Friday.”

“The terror attack? You didn’t tell me you had been caught up in that,” Sherlock accused.

“No need, Sherlock. I am safe, as you can see. There is no lasting damage. No need for you to fret.”

“That is not the point…”

“Sherlock, would you have been able to affect any outcome? No, of course not. Ergo, no requirement for you to know. I am safe, because this man here decided to risk his life to get me out of my car.”

“Well, looks like we all know each other,” John said. “Mycroft, drink?”

“Thank you, John. Some of that excellent single malt you had last time I was here, if you have any left. So...Greg, how are you?”

“Fine, fine. How about you? Recovered okay?”

“Yes, perfectly, thank you. Oh, John, this is for you. Happy 40th.”

John handed over a glass and accepted the small package with a grin. “Nice of you, thank you.” 

Greg took a pull from his beer and regarded Mycroft who sipped from his glass appreciatively. “So, how are you really?” Greg asked, once Sherlock had flounced off in a huff. 

“Fine, thank you. Really, Station Commander, I am quite recovered. Thank you for your concern.” Mycroft was doing his best to reel in his wayward emotions on finding his rescuer was actually a guest at John’s birthday party. He should have joined the dots. Although he hadn't yet had any intel from Anthea concerning the man's background, he knew about the military connection. It was highly likely that the two men knew each other from their time in military service.

"So, Mycroft, was it you?" That came out of left field. 

"Beg pardon? Was what me? I am supposed to have done something?"

"I'm up for a Queen's gallantry medal. Now, who else would have nominated me, hm?”

“I admit I may have had something to do with it, but after all, your actions were noted by some very important people. Why are you so averse?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I'm appreciative of the gesture, but I hate awards. I'm not in this for a reward, Mycroft, it's my job. All of my colleagues lay their lives on the line, on a regular basis. Just makes me feel a bit...uncomfortable, that's all."

“I am sorry, Gregory…” Mycroft began, but Greg spluttered his beer.

“Nobody calls me Gregory,” he said, laughing. “Well, except my mum, when I’ve been a bad boy…”

“And are you...a bad boy, _Gregory_?” Mycroft knocked back a rather larger mouthful of his drink. Greg just looked at him. Belatedly, Mycroft remembered Greg believed him to be married. _Perhaps flirting isn’t such a good idea_ , he thought.

“He’s always been a bad lad, haven’t you, Lestrade?” A shadow loomed over them as a large ginger-haired man peered over Greg’s shoulder.

Greg turned to find Findlay Murray grinning at him, a pint glass in his hand, and that familiar lopsided grin in place. “Scotty,” Greg said, happily. “How are you, mate? Long time, no see.” The two men shook hands, and Murray grabbed his errant friend into a bear hug.

“Aye, it is. Where’ve you been, you wee bastard? Johnny tells me you’re fully trained in rescuin’ cats from trees now.”

“Among other things, Scotty.”

“And nearly gettin’ yoursel’ blown up…”

“Yeah, well, you never know what you’ll be facing in this job. Keeps me on my toes…”

“But not out of trouble, aye?”

“Nope, never that. Trouble’s my middle name.” Greg saw Mycroft watching them both and turned to Fin. “Scotty, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. Myc, this is Findlay Murray, known as Scotty to his mates. We were in the Fusiliers together, with John.”

“Mr Murray, a pleasure,” Mycroft said, shaking hands. 

“So you’re the brother o’ Johnny’s new fella, eh?” 

“For my sins.”

Murray grinned. “Aye, well, frae what Jonny’s told me, Sherlock’s enough to keep anyone on their toes.”

“Little brothers frequently are,” Mycroft said, smiling. “So, you served with John and Greg?”

“Ten years, aye. James is around somewhere,” Murray said, with a pointed look toward Greg.

“What? Sholto?” Greg asked.

“Aye, he agreed to come.”

“What changed his mind?” Greg looked immediately uncomfortable and Mycroft couldn’t help but wonder why. “He was almost a recluse after he was discharged.”

“Nobody knows, but he’s here. Never forgot you, you know…"

"That's what bothers me."


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I make no apology for the pun. Greg comes face to face with an old flame...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this works. PTSD affects people differently, with varying symptoms. If you feel you have any of them, for goodness' sake, seek help. I do not believe you should feel guilty if you cannot help someone, if you cannot live with someone suffering certain conditions, not all of us are equipped to care and do not have the skills to do so. Greg is one of those people. He is able to care, to look after someone who is ill, but unpredictable behaviour is very difficult to deal with. Marriages have ended because of mental illness. No blame, and no shame. We all deal differently. In case you're interested, I do speak from experience.

There was a marked change in Gregory Lestrade after Murray had mentioned that James Sholto was somewhere in the flat. He was guarded, defensive, glancing around as if expecting someone to jump out on him. His conversation was distracted, his replies sporadic, and Mycroft was concerned. 

“If you want to leave…” Mycroft suggested, tentatively. 

“What? Why would I want to do that?”

“This person, whoever he is, plainly causes you distress.”

Greg’s sigh was deep. “I just don’t know what he’ll say. I haven’t seen James Sholto since….” Greg sighed. “We were together for a while, after…. After the divorce, I needed _something_ , and James provided it. Not even sure what I wanted really. I was...a bit lost, and James was out of the army and a bit lost as well, and we sort of clicked.”

“Not unexpected. Two people adrift can often find safe harbour together.” Mycroft wondered if that had sounded a little wistful. 

"Greg?” someone said behind Greg’s back. Mycroft watched the man freeze momentarily, and then turn his back to Mycroft, his own face a blank mask.

“James?” James Sholto was tall, dark, and handsome, except for some scarring that marred one side of his face, Mycroft could see why Greg might take a fancy to the man. He also looked off-balance, uncertain, which reassured Mycroft somewhat. It looked as though both men were on similar footing, unsure of where they stood with each other. With a surreptitious squeeze of Greg’s elbow where Sholto couldn’t see it, Mycroft withdrew to a circumspect distance and left them to talk. 

Sholto’s eyes were soft as they regarded Greg, there was no animosity, but for some reason, as Mycroft observed the two men come face to face, he felt his stomach drop. There was history there, and not particularly good history, at that. Certainly not on Greg's behalf anyway. He was guarded, his body language tense and defensive, arms crossed over his chest, eyes down. He looked so different from his usual commanding self that Mycroft was a bit shocked at the change. 

"So, how are you?" There was a very slight shake in Greg's voice.

"Oh, you know, keeping calm and carrying on, and all that rot." Sholto smiled, a warm genuine smile as far as Mycroft could see. He reached out to stroke Greg's arm in a friendly gesture, but the man pulled back, distancing himself. Momentary pain flashed across Sholto's features. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he said softly, holding up his hands in a placatory gesture. "Didn’t mean anything by it. I was a bit surprised when Murray told me you were here. I’d forgotten your connection to John Watson. So… you look well.”

“Yeah, well, I’m...managing, I guess.”

“I’ve missed you, you know. I'm just sorry things turned out like they did."

"Me too. I…" Greg shook his head. "Look, it wasn't your fault…" he blurted.

"I don't blame you, you know…" Both sentences collided in the air. Sholto huffed a laugh. "Look at us," he said, regretfully. “We used to be good together, didn’t we?”

"Yeah…” Greg sighed. “Yeah, we did. Look, just to be straight, it wasn't about you...well, that’s how it started, obviously, but...I mean, it was about me. About what I can and cannot deal with. I...I'm sorry, but...m.m.my wife…"

"I know, you told me about her. It’s fine..."

"No, it's not fine!" Greg's raised voice drew a few looks and he subsided, embarrassed. "She was…" he stopped, looked at the ground, then back up. "You don't know all of it, James. Look, when you did...what you did, that night...it wasn't good, but it reminded me…what happened, before the divorce. Brought it all back, what she did…” He subsided, unable to continue.

“What did she do, Greg?” Greg looked up at him, their eyes meeting, Greg’s haunted with memory. "I want to understand, please tell me. What did she do?"

“Same thing as you did. She pulled a knife on me.” 

Sholto looked away. “They tell me that’s what happened, but honestly I cannot remember it. I was...I know I had flashbacks, and hallucinations...I just don’t remember anything of that night."

"Nothing at all?'

"I know you're telling the truth. I would never doubt that. I know you told me to get to my doctor, but I have a gap in my memory. I’m on medication now, I’m having therapy, and...well, I’m maybe not perfect yet, but I'm on the way to being content with life. Would be better if I had someone to share it with though..." 

“Look, James, I'm glad you're okay. Really, I am. But…" Greg shook his head. "I'm sorry. You and me...it’s never going to be possible...I’m sorry. It’s just...How can I trust you? I can’t trust you..."

Sholto smiled regretfully. "It’s okay, Greg,” he said soothingly. “I am truly sorry, love, but don’t torture yourself about it all. Not your fault. I’m not dead yet, and things are better, and we’ll both get past this, won’t we?”

Greg did not reply, choosing to ask a question of his own. "Did you ever get my letter?'

Sholto nodded. "Eventually, yes, I did. Mum kept it away from me for a while. Made perfect sense, truly. Mum told me you'd gone, that you couldn't cope. After what they tell me I did, I wasn’t surprised. Mum wasn't so forgiving, but I could see why you couldn’t stay…"

"I can imagine she hated me," Greg said, "for abandoning you." He remembered handing the flat key over to James' parents, shaking as he did so, apologising over and over.

"I must have really scared you, and you don't scare easily."

"I was more scared for you. Look, I don't blame you, it wasn't under your control, but it wasn't under mine either. Just don't expect me to come back, okay? I can't, after… Nicki broke me, and she did a damn good job of it. I can't just pick up the pieces with you…You put me back together after what she did, but...someone needs to put me back together again and it can’t be you this time.” 

"I _do_ understand, honestly. It's a shame, but... Friends?"

"No, James. I mean, I don't hate you, friends is fine but friends see each other and I'd rather not have contact. I'm not in the right place for it myself." 

James nodded, reluctantly. "If now and again I might ask John how you are…?"

"Fine, that's...okay, I don't mind that. You...you too, okay? Let me know you’re still alive." 

“Mycroft, we need your brain,” Sherlock insisted. “Point of contention. I need your input…”

“In a moment, brother.” Mycroft was momentarily distracted by Sherlock’s desire for his attention, and when he turned back, Greg had gone. _It’s only a small flat,_ Mycroft thought. Mycroft was standing by the door, and Greg had not passed him. _The bathroom? Sherlock’s bedroom?_ There were quite a few people crammed into the rooms, most of whom Mycroft didn’t know. There were a few more colleagues of John’s, plus Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper, and Mike Stamford. Stuart Dimmock had arrived with his sergeant, and Mycroft moved through them all, searching for where Greg had hidden himself. 

“He’s in the loo,” Findlay Murray said, seeing Mycroft looking. “Looked a little ragged…”

“He was talking to Sholto.”

“Aye, maybe that did nae go too well. Looked like he’d seen a ghost.” Murray laid a hand on Mycroft’s arm as he tried to pass. “Be kind tae him, will ye? The lad’s seen more’n his fair share o’ grief.”

Mycroft frowned, nodded, but said nothing, and went on down the narrow way to the bathroom. He knocked gently. “Gregory? Are you in there?” There was a pause, then the door cracked open.

“Sorry, I’ll be out in a mo…”

“Gregory, is there...anything you wish to...well, talk about?” It sounded lame to Mycroft’s own ears. _Why would Gregory even trust me? It’s not as if we know each other._ “You saved my life, the least I can do is lend an ear, should you need one?” The door opened a little more. The man who was looking back at Mycroft was not the man who had saved him. Gregory’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked haggard. “Forgive me, I do not mean to pry. You have no reason to trust me, it’s just...I want to help, if you need it.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was quiet, but pained. “I...not here,” he said. “Too many ears…”

“Elsewhere then? I can have my driver pick us up in five minutes, spirit us away somewhere safe.”

“Why would you, Mycroft? I mean, we don’t know each other. If this is some misplaced sense of owing me something...well, you don’t. I’ve told you, it’s my job. I don’t need awards and I don’t need anyone to feel beholden to me, understand?” The red-rimmed eyes glared at him, daring Mycroft to gainsay Greg’s opinion.

Mycroft sighed the put-upon sigh of the elder brother and rolled his eyes. “Gregory,” he said in his most pragmatic fashion, “you simply look like you need to vacate the premises. Please, allow me to offer a safe space, and a non-judgemental ear, if you wish to talk. It is well within my purview to provide such.”

Greg gave a watery chuckle. “Am I that transparent?”

“Not really, no. However, I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation…”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“Again, not intentionally. I was...merely taking a protective stance, in case intervention was required. As I said, I do not wish to pry, but…” Mycroft spread his hands helplessly, “it just looked like you needed someone to listen.”

Greg sniffed, and nodded. “Okay, but let me just, I dunno, clean up a bit. I’ll be out in a mo. Go call your driver then, if you’re really willing to listen.” The door closed on him. 

“Sorry, John, I am afraid I have to depart,” Mycroft said, shaking the doctor by the hand. “It has been very pleasant, thank you.” 

“Thanks for coming, and for the present, Mycroft. Much appreciated.”

“You are much appreciated, Dr Watson, more than you know. Sherlock, you laid on a lovely party.”

“Thanks to you,” Sherlock murmured, seeing his brother to the door. 

“Any time, Sherlock. I just wish you would see what was going on in front of you.” 

“Beg pardon?” Sherlock looked puzzled. Mycroft sighed.

“Sherlock, you see but you do not observe. Let me give you a little advice, take the next step, and make it soon.”

“Next step? What? Where?”

“With John, little brother. Don’t be dense. Surely you know he cares for you? I should have thought it was obvious to the blind.”

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. “It _is_ obvious, brother, but...I am merely not sure if we should.”

“Whyever not?”

“I am perhaps not the best person for him. I would have thought that was obvious.”

“Oh, Sherlock. You are not the man you once were, you know.” Mycroft tapped an affectionate finger on his brother’s chest. “You are a good person, and growing kinder with every day. Seize the day, brother mine. Life is too short for ifs, buts, and maybes.”

“Sorry, John, gotta go,” Greg was saying. “Got a call-out. They need me.”

“Bugger. Bad luck, mate. Thanks for coming though.”

“Oh, Greg, you going?” Molly threw her arms around him. “We never got to chat.”

“I’ll see you soon, Molls. Promise. Coffee sometime, yes? Text me when you’re free.”

“Okay. Stay safe, Greg.” She let him go, but then exclaimed, “Oo, the calendar…Wait a minute. Irene sent me your photo…”

“What?” 

Mycroft and Sherlock turned interested heads. “What calendar?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh…” Greg looked a bit uncomfortable. 

“Perhaps now is not the time,” Mycroft suggested. “If you are leaving, Station Commander, perhaps I can offer you a lift?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks. Left the car at home. That would be good.” 

Before the two men could retreat, Molly had retrieved her phone, bringing up her messages. “Here,” she said, guilelessly **,** thrusting the phone under Greg’s nose.

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed. "For the love of God, don’t put that on social media before publication, Irene will kill you.”

“Oh, don’t worry. She asked me not to. I’m not completely daft. Don't you like it? I think it makes you look...well…” Molly smiled. 

“Is that a kitten?” Sherlock asked, incredulity colouring his tone. Greg just groaned. 

**0000000**

In the car, Greg was silent. Mycroft had asked where he wanted to go, and Greg had told him his address. “Home would be good, right now.” 

“The photo was good, you know,” Mycroft risked. “The calendar is a laudable idea. Charity fundraisers always are.”

“I wish I’d never agreed. I mean…Jesus, I’m no spring chicken anymore, Mycroft. I should never have let Molly talk me into it."

“You look…” _devastatingly attractive, stunning, virile_ … Plenty of descriptives flashed through Mycroft’s head, none of which would be appropriate at that moment.

“Ridiculous? Cheesy?”

“Far from it, Gregory.”

“Come off it. It was a stupid idea. I’m out of shape, I’m middle aged...”

“I rather think you have a skewed idea of how you look, you know. You are perhaps no longer young, but you are still…” _gorgeous, beautiful, fuckable_ , “...very good looking. I am sure you will aid the calendar’s sales.”

Greg was looking at him strangely. “You sure you don’t need your eyesight checked? Maybe you did get a bang on the head…”

Mycroft smiled. “Nonsense. You would make quite the catch, Gregory. Your hair is very distinguished, you have kept yourself fit, you have dignity...”

Greg snorted. “Not any more. It’s not very dignified to get your kit off for a calendar photoshoot. Let’s face it, it’s only one step up from porn.” 

“Nonsense. It is quite tasteful. After all, you are only partially unclothed, and there is a kitten involved. Anthea would approve.”

“Oh, your missus? Perhaps you should buy her a copy?” 

“Ah...I think there has been a little misunderstanding concerning my... _wife_. Anthea is my Personal Assistant, Gregory.”

“That’s...nice? You two working together, you'll definitely be a power couple…”

“No, I meant that she is my PA and _not_ my wife. Neither of us is married, and my...um… my interests lie elsewhere. Women are not my area, I’m afraid. 

“Oh,” Greg said, as the implications sank in. “Oh! Right. I...sorry. I am really sorry. I thought…”

“It’s quite alright, Gregory, please do not worry about it. Easy mistake to make. She and I have been working together for a long time. She worries about me, constantly. A better assistant I could never have hoped to have, we work closely together and we work very well together, but while Anthea is very protective of me, she remains my employee, not my spouse.”

Greg nodded. “Mycroft...I...well, I was...wondering…”

“Would you like to go somewhere for a drink, Gregory? My offer to talk still stands.”

Greg nodded. “Yes, okay.” He watched as Mycroft rapped on the privacy screen.

“Would you take us to my club, please, Jeremy?” As he spoke, his phone pinged. He checked the text. 

**_SHolmes 21:24. Sexyfire.jpg_**

Mycroft opened the picture file. It was the photo of Greg from Molly’s phone. Another text pinged as he looked at the vision.

_**SHolmes 21:27 I thought you could do with this, brother. Consider it an early birthday present. John asks that you treat Graham carefully. Don’t break him, brother dear.** _

**MHolmes 21.30 Thank you, brother. Do try to remember his name is Gregory. I am careful with everything in my purview, Sherlock. Tell the good Doctor not to fret needlessly.**

He turned off the phone and dropped it in his pocket. 

“What was that about?” Greg asked. “They need you to stop world war three?”

“Not at all. I am unavailable this evening, and they know it. Anthea would only contact me in dire emergency.”

“Oh, that’s good. So...nothing urgent then?”

“No.” Mycroft smiled. “I am all yours.” _And I wish with all my heart that was true…._


	8. Confessional and Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft listens, and offers support, and he hopes....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we all know Greg's ex-wife is a bitch. This one is a manipulating bully.

“The Diogenes is quite an exclusive club, for unclubbable men,” Mycroft explained. “It takes those who do not fit anywhere else. Silence and privacy are paramount. Please do not speak until I tell you that you can.” Greg nodded. “Most of the areas inside are silent,” Mycroft went on. “The strangers’ room and the bar are not, you can speak in those areas, but at no time does one raise one’s voice above a murmur. You can speak freely when we are in my office.”

“Okay. Sounds a bit weird.” 

Mycroft smiled, broadly. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I believe weirdness is also subject to personal judgement.” 

Greg chuckled at that. “No odd handshakes? Strange rituals? Initiation ceremonies at midnight?”

“Boringly, the strangest rituals my fellow members are used to are complete and total silence in the common areas, and a well-ironed daily paper.”

“Jesus, you still do that? Do you have a butler too?”

“We have liveried staff who are there in a number of capacities, some of whom can provide a butler’s services, should they be required. Most are stewards, there to wait on the members’ requirements; to bring drinks or other sundries, newspapers for instance.”

“So you have minions?”

“Heaven’s sake, Gregory, I do not have minions. They are paid employees, and they are there to…”

“Do your bidding?”

“Assist with members’ needs,” Mycroft insisted. “Now, I think I shall have something sent up to us from the kitchen. Order what you like, food or drink, my treat. There is a good kitchen, a Michelin starred chef works for us, and there is a very well stocked wine cellar.”

“You know, I could really do with a steak sandwich.”

“No sooner said than done.”

The club was oak-panelled, thick-carpeted, old world opulence. Several members were sitting in chairs that looked anything but comfortable, reading newspapers, snifters of brandy or tumblers of whisky on small tables beside them. Nobody sat close together. They were like little islands in a sea of Axminster. Greg remained silent as requested, following Mycroft as he walked in. The man forged ahead as though he owned the place. The liveried stewards he had told Greg about actually bowed to him as he passed. Greg trailed in his wake, up an elegant set of stairs to a landing, and down a corridor peppered with pedestals upon which were mounted stone busts of worthy figures; poets, prime ministers, philosophers. Mycroft stopped by a heavy door, produced a good old fashioned key and unlocked it. It opened with a quiet but drawn-out squeak, worthy of a horror movie. Once inside, Mycroft locked it behind them, leaving the key in view on his desk. 

Inside, the paneled room was comfortable, a study more than an office, furnished with a heavy dark wood desk, comfortable armchairs, a real fire in the small grate and a well-stocked drinks cabinet. The carpet was thick and soft under his feet, and heavy velvet drapes had been drawn over the window, shutting out the rather dismal night. A silver tea tray sat on the desk with a steaming china teapot, two cups, a delicate milk jug and a small sugar basin nestled on it. Mycroft hung their coats up on the back of the door, and gestured to a seat.

“Make yourself comfortable, Gregory. It is safe to speak within these walls.”

“How did they know we were coming? I mean, someone had to make up the fire and bring in the tray.”

“House elves,” Mycroft deadpanned. “They’ve been working for us for a very long time. Their magic allows excellent prediction of when we’re going to arrive...”

“Idiot,” Greg said gently. “House elves are my dream. Imagine coming home to clean laundry, a steaming cup of tea, your dinner on the go...and no arguments.”

“Well, our house elves are more prosaic. I sent a text to the porter. The club looks old fashioned but they do embrace new technology. Texting a message to have my office ready for two people to arrive within ten minutes is not a problem. I am sorry that we have yet to enable Owl Post. It would probably be more efficient than the Post Office these days, but I have a feeling they would be far too inclined to go on strike because we were not feeding them enough mice.”

Greg smiled. “Owl post or not, it would be nice to have minions to do stuff like that.”

“I have told you, I do not have minions, Gregory. They are paid employees.”

“Mycroft, someone in your position has to have minions. It comes with the territory.”

“And what territory would that be?”

“I dunno, advisor to the PM, Man of Mystery, Evil Genius?”

“Evil genius?” Mycroft’s smile lit his face. “I think I like that epithet. Mycroft Holmes, Evil Genius. Sherlock would approve, but I can't help but wonder what the PM would think if I started using that on my business cards.” Mycroft moved to his desk and poured the tea. “Tea, Gregory?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks. Milk and one, please.” He watched Mycroft add milk and then offer him the sugar bowl. He carefully spooned sugar into his tea and stirred. Things were a bit different now he knew Anthea was not Mycroft’s wife. He would never have guessed the man was gay. He was smartly dressed, immaculate even, but he wasn’t prissy. He was powerful, confident, moneyed, and none of it phased him. He was comfortable with opulence and power, and boy, if that wasn’t a massive turn on for Greg. 

“Please, let’s be comfortable,” Mycroft said and guided Greg to a chair. He took the one opposite. “Feel free to order food. I believe a steak sandwich was mentioned?”

“That would be good, yeah.” 

Mycroft smiled and raised his phone, speed dialling. “Yes, Henri, good evening. May I order something from the kitchen? A steak sandwich, if you please. All the trimmings. In fact, make that for two. Yes, thank you.” Mycroft rang off and slipped his phone away in an inside pocket. “Now, to business. Would you still care to talk? Unless you have changed your mind. Whatever you feel comfortable with, Gregory.”

Greg paused, sipped his tea to give himself space, and thought. It might be good to talk. To lay his worries in the open, to talk to someone not biased, someone distanced.

“Mycroft, are you sure? Some of what I have to say, it isn’t...well, pleasant. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I understand completely. It is your comfort I am concerned with. I dare say I have dealt with worse. I have often listened to Sherlock pour his heart out, and I will not sit in judgement, Gregory. I merely offer an ear, a sounding board, if you will.”

“Okay then. Where to start?” Distractedly, Greg ran his fingers through his hair, mussing the short strands. 

“Wherever you feel it is relevant,” Mycroft suggested.

“Okay then…” Greg took a steadying breath. “The reason I was worried about seeing James…. You probably gathered we _were_ together, for a while,” Greg admitted. “Sholto is...complicated. I'm not sure seeing him again was a good idea. In any capacity.”

“It worried you.” 

“Not _worried_ exactly, just...it’s unsettling. I wanted to put that behind me. We were good together, for the short time we were a couple, but James is... _was_ unpredictable. He began to suffer PTSD, he got flashbacks, hallucinations…He had a bad episode during his army days. He was badly burned, the vehicle he was in was blown up by an IED. He came out of it, he healed, but he was changed. He lost friends, we all did, but he took it hard. He was a major, you see. Higher rank, more responsibility. I couldn’t cope with him when he attacked me…”

“He attacked you?”

“I’m trusting your discretion here, Mycroft. It _wasn’t_ his fault. I know he sought therapy after.”

“I understand, Gregory. Please believe me, I do. You _can_ trust me. Please don’t worry about that.”

Greg chewed the end of this thumb, obviously running things through in his mind before choosing what to say. “James became a virtual recluse after his discharge from the army, kept himself away from people...I drew him out of his shell, a bit, and we were good together. Even loved each other, a bit, I think. After what he did to me, after his treatment and all the therapy, I heard he really retreated from the world. Trouble is, I always felt like I’d run out on him, abandoned him when he needed someone…It never sat well with me.” 

“Gregory, you would not be the first person who couldn’t handle a relationship with someone with severe mental illness. Do not castigate yourself unduly. Does he blame you?”

“Truth to tell, I’ve no idea. He didn’t seem to, but...I don’t know him any more, not really. He was violent, you see, and I cut all contact. I don’t believe for a moment that he was really wanting to hurt me, but...I couldn’t live like that.”

“James and I knew each other in the army, we served a good few years together, same Regiment. After I left, when I retrained, we met up again. I stayed in the Reserves, served in Afghanistan with him and John and Fin. We kept in touch. After the wife and I divorced, when I was finally free, I needed _something_. James kept me company, he let me stay at his gaff when I had to move out, he helped me through what was a messy and acrimonious split, and we just… we connected.” Greg searched Mycroft’s face, but all he saw was concern. “We actually had a great time, we were good together, the sex was amazing. I’ve always been more drawn to men than women truth to tell. But then...something triggered him, no idea what. He started zoning out. When he did, he wasn’t with me, he was seeing the past. He got violent, smashing things up. Then came the paranoia. I came home to find him cowering under the coffee table, muttering about people coming to get him. I didn’t know what to do. Never experienced anything like that. I knew what it might be, but we were relatively happy. Settled. When he was...when he’d got over the first episode, I insisted he seek help. He went to see his doctor, but...it took a while. It happened twice more before I realised I couldn’t help him, and I couldn’t cope with it. The final straw was being woken at 3am one morning, in bed, with a kitchen knife at my throat…”

“My God, Gregory. What on earth did you do?”

“Called the police on him. After I'd managed to talk him down, persuade him I wasn’t a threat, he tried to slash his wrists. When the police and paramedics turned up, they sectioned him, took him into hospital. That was the last I saw of him. I called the hospital, explained I was his partner, asked how long they thought he would be in, did he need anything, that kind of thing. They wouldn’t tell me at first. So I went in the day after to try to talk to someone, took him some fresh clothing and his washbag, to find he was on suicide watch. Eventually they told me he would be in for a while. Several days at least, possibly longer, while he was assessed. I had a key to his flat, but we hadn't officially moved in together. I packed the things he had left at mine, took them back there, removed my stuff from there. I phoned his parents, told them what had happened. When they came, I handed his key over, left him a long letter which I was never sure whether or not he received, and got on with my life. Shortly after, I moved to a new flat and asked for a station transfer, and I didn’t leave a forwarding address. That's why I feel like shit about it..."

“Does John know about any of this?”

“He knows that Sholto suffered PTSD, but he doesn’t know about the violence. I didn’t tell him, and I can’t think he’d have invited both of us if he’d known. John’s not like that.”

“No, he is not so thoughtless as to cause either of you undue pain.”

“It was good to see James but...I can’t. I can’t risk exposing myself to such…” Greg shook his head, unable to articulate it. 

“Uncertainty? Vulnerability? Danger?”

“All of the above, yeah.” Greg fell silent, sipping tea that must have gone cold. “I guess I’ll always feel like shit. I can save people from burning buildings, I can manage a team, but my marriage failed and then I abandoned my best friend...Nothing quite like being a failure.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply but at that moment there was a knock on the door. 

“That will be our sandwiches, I think.” Mycroft rose to his feet and padded to the door, unlocking it and allowing a liveried steward to carry in a tray which the man deposited on the desk. He bowed, and withdrew, Mycroft tipping him handsomely on the way out.

“That is a thing of beauty, Mycroft,” Greg said, admiring the plate of food. A sandwich sat on a bed of salad, garnished with shavings of something…

“Truffle,” Mycroft explained. “The steak is medium rare, Gregory, I hope that is to your liking?”

“It’s great, yeah. My God, that thing looks gorgeous.” Crusty artisan bread had been sliced and gently toasted, drizzled with a mustard dressing. The steak had been cut thin and nestled within. There were crisps, if they could be given such a plebeian name. They were obviously made in-house, hand fried and scattered with rough sea salt. The salad leaves were small, crisp and refreshing, also drizzled with a dressing similar to the one on the steak. “Jesus, what did this guy do, win Masterchef?”

“He is Michelin starred, he knows his onions, as they say.”

“I don’t want to disturb this by eating it,” Greg admitted. “It’s too pretty to eat.”

“Nonsense. Eat up and enjoy, Gregory,” Mycroft urged. “Eat first, continue with our discussion later, after you have eaten. More tea? I can call for some fresh, or can I offer something a little stronger?” 

“Tea would be fine. Perhaps need to stay off the strong stuff tonight.”

“Very well, tea it is.” He picked up his phone again as Greg tucked into his sandwich, relishing the experience.

**0000000**

“Nicki was manipulative, a bully,” Greg admitted, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “A lot of blokes like me, they don’t want to admit that their wife was controlling, bullying. Mine was a jealous bitch. We can hold it together in our workplace, we hold down jobs that need us to be strong, organised, mentally well-balanced, in control, but at home, it can be a different story. She wanted to know where I was, she threw a strop if I was late, read my texts, stopped me going to work events, unless she went too. She was all charm there of course, she was lively, funny, chatty, she knew how to make herself look good. She was friendly, caring. I fell for it, and her, head over heels when I was 27. She was 30, a bit older than me. We loved each other, or so I thought. Looking back, I think she felt it was kudos to be married to a man in uniform. That’s definitely what attracted her. I was in the army for another five years, and I chose to leave and learn another career. I left thinking it would save my marriage, because she was sick of me being away. In truth, I think she was happy I was always away, she had a string of lovers, all of whom dumped her when it looked like she was coming on too heavy and wanting to know where they were all the time. When I passed my firefighters’ training, it meant more money, and we moved. She never worked, of course. She was what might commonly be called high maintenance. She certainly liked spending my money.”

“You finally divorced though?”

“Yeah. When I realised she was cheating on me. There were signs but she flew into a rage if I challenged her. She went cold, refused to make love, went out with her ‘mates’ every night. Blamed it on me, on my neglect, said she'd have me out on the street, in debt, threatened to accuse me of rape, all sorts. She stayed out all night, didn’t tell me where she was, no contact, nothing. One time, she was gone two nights, I thought she might be in trouble. I phoned her friends, and one suggested I try Patty. I went round to talk to her, but she was off her face with drink. She laughed in my face, was only too happy to spill the beans on what Nicki had been doing behind my back, and for how long.” 

“What did you do?”

“Asked her if she knew any of the men." Greg actually grinned. “She told me my wife kept an address book. Her 'little red book' she called it. All her shags were written in purple, she said."

"Did you find the book?"

"Amazingly yes. In the drawer by her side of the bed. So I photographed the pages, put the book back where I'd found it. There were ten names. I tracked five of them down, explained who I was and that I wanted to divorce her but I needed proof, and I managed to get two of them to agree to my solicitor getting in touch. Two were married and weren't willing to go public. There were a few who had moved with no forwarding address. Seems she was a serial adulterer. I went to see my solicitor the next day and started divorce proceedings, and then I went home, and carried on as normal. I told my solicitor not to write or phone, Nicki was checking the post, my phone, everything. When Nicki went out again, I packed all my stuff, threw it into the car, and I left. It was then that James let me sleep on his sofa. He was wonderful, really. He was...caring, loving, supportive.” 

“It is good that you had that.”

“Yeah, so it made what I did seem worse...I mean, he was there for me...I should have been there for him.”

“Gregory, I think what you were facing with him was a little more dangerous than your divorce from your wife…”

Greg shook his head. “I ran scared, I think. He reminded me of Nicki. Threatening me, brandishing a knife at me. She only did it once, but that was once too far. I never knew what she might do after that. She woke me up, brandishing a knife and demanding to know where I’d been, who I had been with. She tried to say I’d cheated on her. Still not sure why I forgave her, why I stayed so long.”

“You loved her, you said so. Perhaps you did not want to believe it of her. You would not be the first.” 

“I think I was scared of what she might do. She threatened more than once to accuse me of raping her. I did not need that, I was scared people would believe her over me, so I let her bully me, Mycroft. What does that say to you about me?”

Mycroft smiled a little reflectively. “I pray you, in your letters, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.”

Greg lips curved in a wry smile. “Othello,” he said. “Good choice.”

Mycroft was pleasantly surprised Greg knew the reference. “I imagine your self esteem took a battering,” he suggested.

“Too fucking right. James helped me a lot with that too. It was nice that someone took an interest in me, just as I am, warts and all.” 

“I imagine being paid attention and being cared about were what you needed.”

“Yes, they were. James was willing to help me, so if he was so willing to help me, I should have helped him.” 

"Loving someone and supporting them are often different things. Finding the strength to support someone, that can be challenging, especially when they are experiencing something you have no skill with, no experience or training for. I think it is time to stop saying _should_ , Gregory. Whereas your ex-wife knew what she was doing, your friend was suffering from something not under his control. You understand that, and you don’t blame him. Whereas your wife...How anybody could treat you like that is beyond me, Gregory. You are...an amazing man.”

“Me? Amazing?”

“Yes, you. You left the army, a place you counted as family, and you retrained. You left everything you love for the woman you loved. You rose in your career, and you prospered. You stayed loyal, despite her behaviour. You were a soldier, a leader; liked and respected. You are the same now, a leader, liked and respected by your team. You are courageous, you proved that. And you do look very... _very_ attractive, Gregory,” Mycroft admitted. He smiled and added, “kitten notwithstanding.” 

Greg laughed, tension eased along the line of his shoulders. “Upstaged by a kitten? Seriously?”

“How a man treats those weaker than himself speaks volumes about his character, Gregory. Surely you know that? A caring man is very desirable, as is someone strong yet gentle.”

“What about you, Mycroft? You desire a strong caring man with a cute animal?”

“There is one in particular, yes.”

“You think so, hah?”

“Very much so, as it happens. My heart has been stolen by a rather handsome creature. After all, a grey pelt is very fetching, and those eyes, twin pools of amber....”

“Amber? My eyes are brown.”

“I was talking about the kitten, Gregory. Do keep up…” 

“Bastard,” Greg laughed again. Mycroft found he would do a lot to make the man laugh. “So...where do we go from here, Mr Holmes?”

“Anywhere you wish,” Mycroft said, finding he meant every word. “What’s past is past, Gregory.” He reached out and twined their fingers together, drawing the man closer. “What we do from now on is what counts. Has the issue with your wife been completely dealt with?"

"Sort of? We're divorced, properly, but…"

"But?"

"Ah, it's nothing."

"Gregory?"

Greg sighed. "She never stops trying to muddy my reputation. Doesn't stick, but she has friends who listen." 

"Sounds like she needs to be taught a lesson. I do not tolerate bullying. It is hurtful and damaging. You deserve to find someone caring, loving, someone who will appreciate you for who you are. Nicki sounds like a user, a manipulator. Who else will she hurt if left to continue?"

"What on earth can you do about it?"

"Give me her full name, and we shall see."

"Seriously?" Greg looked wary.

"Gregory, do not be melodramatic. I am not going to have her assassinated."

"Oh? That's a pity."

"Gregory! I shall take that as an expression of the type of black humour common among those in the emergency services."

"Take it how you like, I still hate the woman." Greg sighed. "Okay, okay, I don't want her assassinated. Can you have her marooned on an island somewhere?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I can have a full background check done on her, I will find the skeletons in her closet, her little secrets, her medical history, her bank details, everything. Then I will decide what to do." Greg had gone still beside him.

"You...um...you're not kidding, are you? You can do that?"

"Of course."

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft. You can have the same done to me, can't you?"

"Unfortunately, it will have to be done should we pursue a serious relationship." Mycroft regarded him with open honesty. "I will be honest, the nature of my career means certain security checks must be carried out on everyone in my sphere. That will mean you. If you choose not to agree…"

"...then we can't have a relationship? Bloody Hell. That's fucking mean, Mycroft. Not...I didn't mean you, I know you're not the one making the rules here. It just seems brutal, that's all." 

"Hence the reason I do not have many relationships. Getting someone to agree is not easy. Invasion of one’s privacy is not something most people relish."

"Do you need to get them to agree?"

"I find it more politic to present people with a choice, yes."

"Well, okay then. I agree. Go on, find my skeletons if you can. You already know about Nicki. She’s the biggest skeleton I have. I think all I've got is a few cobwebs and dust bunnies left." Mycroft smiled, promising himself never to let Greg know his background check was already in the pipeline. "And that smile tells me you've already ordered it, haven't you?" _Damn the man for his astute brain_. "Don't forget to look at my uncle then. Not many people know about my dad's half brother."

"Half brother?"

"Mm. Crime boss in the East End. Knew the Krays well. Used to go for tea…" Greg paused, straightfaced, for a heartbeat, then slapped his knee and started to laugh. "Oh, my God, your face, Mycroft. You believed me. You fucking believed me!" 

"Please, Gregory, don't give me a heart attack. It would severely curtail our activities." 

Greg grinned. "Don't worry, mate. I'm with the fire brigade, I'm trained in CPR. I'd give you the kiss of life anyday." 


	9. Comeuppances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicki gets her dues and Greg gets injured in the line of duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for references to bullying behaviour. I hope Mycroft's treatment of Nicki is sympathetic enough. I have tried to make him compassionate to a rather negative character.

“I’m sorry, Madam, but your card has been declined.”

“What? Why? There’s plenty in the account.”

“I’m sorry, Madam, I don’t know why,” the young woman behind the counter said apologetically. “It just won’t go through. Try it again,” she suggested, helpfully. “It sometimes works when you do it a second time…” Nichola Formby, previously Lestrade, glared at the girl but attempted to put the card through again. “Sorry, Madam, it’s declined again. Do you have another method of payment?”

“Of course, here.” She produced another debit card. “There’s definitely enough in this account.” She put the new card in the reader and put in the pin, watched as it acknowledged with a ‘pin accepted’ message, and waited. 

“I’m sorry, Madam, that one hasn’t gone through either.”

“What? But that’s impossible…”

“Sorry, Madam. Maybe you should contact your bank…?”

“Try it again. I’ll put it on my credit card,” she said. Again she went through the motions, and watched incredulously as even this card was declined. “But that’s impossible…”

In the queue behind her people were shifting restlessly, and, mightily embarrassed, she shoved her cards back in her wallet and left the shop, taking out her mobile. She brought up the contacts and scrolled down to the number for her bank. As she was dialling, a voice cut across, insistent.

“Nichola Formby?”

Nicki turned at the unfamiliar voice to see a good-looking blond man with startling blue eyes looking at her with interest. “Yes?” she said, curt at being interrupted. “I’m busy…”

“DI Jonathan Blake. I would like you to come with me please.” The man flashed his warrant card, tone of voice brooking no argument. 

“Why? What am I supposed to have done?” she demanded, raising her voice. “I’m in the middle of shopping, for God’s sake. I have to contact my bank, my cards are not working...”

“Doesn’t look like that’s going very well, does it?” he said pleasantly. “You’re being asked to assist us with our enquiries. There’s someone who wants a chat with you. It has to do with some on-going investigations we think you can help with. So, please, get into the car.” She hesitated. “Look, Ms Formby, I’m asking nicely. I can have you arrested if you want to go down that route, but the amount of paperwork that generates is hideous. Just save us all a problem and get in the car.”

Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be lead to a sleek black town car, which frankly did not look like anything the police would use.

“Look, what’s this all ab...oh!” She cried as she was manhandled none too gently into the vehicle. Tumbling ungracefully inside, the doors slammed shut and locked. Trapped, she turned fearfully to the man now sitting beside her. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if this whole affair was boring him. “You’re quite safe. For now. Just sit tight and this will all be over soon.” 

**0000000**

“Get another hose onto that window!” Greg shouted to his team as the flames shot higher. The terrace house was well ablaze, the windows had exploded outward in the fierce heat and the smoke was blowing across the road. Police had set up roadblocks to keep it clear and four engines had been deployed to bring it under control. Thankfully there was no one home. The neighbours had been evacuated, so there was no immediate concern there. Greg was busy assessing the scene and organising getting access to the back of the property. He had sent Patel and his team off to locate the back way in. He was vaguely aware of Sally intercepting a woman who was running towards them from across the road, just as his radio crackled with a call for assistance from Patel.

“Bradley, take Finch and back up Patel’s team at the back,” Greg instructed, waving the two men over. “He’s experiencing difficulty with access. Maybe take the side alley and see if you can gain access over the boundary?”

“Please, Madam, stay back,” Sally ordered, having moved away to deflect the woman’s advance.

“I came to tell you…” the woman began, but Sally hurried her out of the way across the road.

When she was relatively safe, Sally faced her. “Sorry, we need to make sure you’re far enough away from danger, okay? So, what’s wrong?”

“There’s something you need to know,” she said, urgently. “The man who lives there, he’s a sculptor…”

“Sculptor?”

“Yes, in metal…” Puzzled, Sally took a moment to put two and two together. “He welds stuff together,” the woman added. “He keeps gas canisters in the house.”

“Gas cannisters? What does he use, do you know? What colour are they?”

“They’re quite tall and thin, you know, not short and fat like the ones you use for camping, more like the ones you see in hospital, but they’re reddish, dark…”

“Maroon?” Sally suggested, interrupting the flow. 

The woman nodded. “I suppose, they’re not bright red like the water ones....”

“Acetylene. Where does he keep them, do you know?” Sally asked, urgently.

“In the dining room, at the back. He uses it like a studio…”

“Right, you have to go home. We need to know you’re safe, please.” She caught the eye of one of the police officers. “Make sure Ms…”

“Mrs Doyle, Sonia Doyle” the woman offered. 

“Make sure Mrs Doyle gets home, please.” Sally ran back across the road. There was no sign of Greg. “Iveson? Where’s Lestrade?”

“Went with the others…”

“Where?”

“Round the back…”

“Bloody Hell!” She thumbed the radio. “Donovan to all personnel, Code Red. Evacuate the rear of the property. I repeat, Code Red. Get out of there, now. Acetylene gas canisters in ground floor room at back of house! Are you receiving me? Repeat, evacuate area, gas canisters in dining roo…” Her words were drowned out by a massive explosion at the back of the house. It made her ears ring and set the car alarms off in a wide radius. “Oh, fuck…”

**0000000**

“Ms Formby, thank you for coming,” Mycroft said, ushering the woman into the room. He pulled out a chair for her and then sat himself down on the other side of the plain table, placing a file in front of him on the tabletop. 

“I didn’t have much choice,” she said coldly, sitting primly down. “What’s all this about?”

Mycroft regarded her for a moment. This was the woman who had made Greg’s life a misery, not to mention her former husband’s. Mycroft had dredged up quite a large amount of information that he was almost certain Greg knew nothing about. Nicola was ordinary, indistinct from many women her age; bottle blond, slightly too much makeup, immaculately cut hair, manicured nails. There were age lines at the corners of her too-hard calculating grey eyes, eyes that assessed her prey with an uncompromising stare. Nothing about Nichola Formby was soft, nothing spoke to Mycroft of good humour or kindness. He suspected there might be passion, but with all the selfishness of a female spider intent on the post-coital killing of her mate. Mycroft suppressed a shudder. 

“I understand how inconvenient this must be,” he said, “but please be assured, we appreciate you taking time to help us with our inquiries.” Mycroft sounded uninterested. He glanced up. “Can I get you a drink? Tea perhaps?” He said it like an afterthought, as if reminded that the proprieties needed to be adhered to. 

“No, thank you.”

“If you’re sure.” Mycroft glanced across at one of the men who had come in to flank the door. “Hobson, would you arrange water and two glasses. This might take a while.”

“What? What do you mean, _take a while_? Just how long do you expect to keep me here?” Mycroft glanced up at her, then sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin for a moment in a gesture reminiscent of his brother. 

“I expect this will take a few hours, Ms Formby. We are investigating several avenues that I think you can help with. You are familiar with a man by the name of Richard Whyte?”

“I might be,” she said. “Why, what’s he supposed to have done?”

“You were married to him in August 1986, isn’t that correct?”

“Sounds about right, yes.”

“You divorced?”

“Yes, we did. He...we cited irreconcilable differences,” she explained. “Frankly, he was a beast. He used to get drunk and insist on sex. He raped me…”

Mycroft nodded. “Not a happy marriage then. He lied to you, raped you, caused you to need therapy too, did he not?” She nodded again. “And I gather your marriage to Gregory Alan Lestrade in 1991 proved to be no better?”

“Huh!” she exclaimed. “Him. He had an affair…”

“How simply terrible for you. A knock to your self confidence, I should have thought.”

“I survived,” she said, defiant. “That’s the way of it, isn’t it? I mean...what else can you do?”

Mycroft nodded, sagely, and said nothing. He perused the file in front of him for a moment. “Look,” she said, into the silence, “what is this about? Have either of them done something illegal? If they’ve committed a crime I won’t be surprised. Jesus...” She rolled her eyes. “Both of them were so...rough, needy. Rick was far too controlling. Wanted to know where I was all the time, checked my phone, demanded to know who I’d seen. Greg was in the army, and you know what soldiers can be like. Violent, jealous. He got very...demanding.” 

“Demanding, hm?” Mycroft’s eyes raised to hers. “Did Mr Lestrade attempt to rape you too?” 

“Once. I pulled a knife on him, and he backed off. I mean, it was self defence, I had to do _something_. Told him he needed to get help...”

“You really have been very unlucky, have you not?” He allowed a faint disbelief to colour his tone. She frowned, sensing something wasn’t right. “Neither of your partners has managed to reach the lofty heights of adequacy as a husband, it would seem. Very unlucky…”

“What are you implying?” she demanded. “You can’t keep me here, you know? You haven’t arrested me…”

“You are a very... _complicated_ woman, Nichola,” Mycroft said, pleasantly. “I may call you Nichola, may I not?” he said. He reached to tap the file before him. “This is all the information my people have managed to dredge up on you. It’s quite extensive. You have been a very...busy person, haven’t you?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Please, Ms Formby, I am only trying to get at the facts. Your first marriage wasn’t happy, was it? Your husband lied to you, and raped you, and you have just told me your second husband also tried to rape you. You really have been unfortunate.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t had any luck with men,” she said, defensively. At that moment, the water arrived and Mycroft remained silent as Hobson brought a carafe and two glasses in and placed them on the table. The man took up a position beside the door. Mycroft noted Nicki flicked a glance at him, uncertain. 

“Tell me honestly, Nichola,” Mycroft said pleasantly, “you have not been entirely truthful concerning your relationships, have you?”

“Pardon me?” She began to look affronted. “What are you talking about? I’m the victim…”

“Do not lie to me,” Mycroft snarled, demeanor changing dramatically. “You’ve been a rather... _objectionable_ person, Ms Formby. To a number of people, as it happens. You have had two marriages, two divorces. We have interviewed your former husband, as well as your lovers, affairs you carried on while married to both Mr Whyte and Mr Lestrade. None of them spoke well of you. At least two have taken out injunctions to keep you away. Why was that, I wonder? You had three affairs while married to your first husband. He threatened divorce and you accused him of rape. It even went to trial but it was thrown out for lack of evidence. Mr Hammond was your first affair while married to Mr Lestrade, and his sister recalls that you accused her brother of mental abuse, all of which was spurious at best. You caused him to lose his job, and his friends. He commited suicide in 2004, unable to bear the shame when his own wife left him. In his note, he blamed your bullying. You have had numerous affairs, in both your marriages. Your second husband did not even know about your previous marriage, did he? You lied to him about that and with good reason. In fact, you are a bigamist, are you not? You did not reveal that you had in fact been married, and in fact you still were when you tied the knot with Mr Lestrade. Your divorce did not come through for another year. You managed ten affairs during your years with him, all names kept in your little red book,” Mycroft said, delivering the coup de grace by removing the small notebook from his inside pocket, and placing it on the top of the file with care. He watched Nichola’s face drain of colour. “It is clear to me that you are a serial adulterer, Nichola Janette Formby. That is your maiden name, is it not?” Mycroft paused when she did not answer. “I said, is it not?” he snapped. She startled and looked at him fearfully.

“Y.y.yes,” she said. 

“Now, while there is no law against adultery, there is against bigamy, which is a crime that carries a maximum sentence of seven years in prison, and believe me, I will do my utmost to see you serve the maximum sentence for what you have done. You are perhaps also guilty of wasting police time, not to mention both abuse and hate crime. You are a bully, Nichola. Your abuse of your husbands and your lovers is plain, and now, well documented.” he patted the file. “There have been three injunctions taken out against you during your lifetime to prevent you contacting or approaching certain individuals, one of whom was a former friend from college. When we questioned him, he stated that you were abusive, controlling, and your behaviour was erratic and alarming. He was afraid of what you might do when he broke off your relationship. You do not take rejection at all well, do you?”

“No, no I don’t...didn’t. They were all selfish bastards, putting themselves first, abandoning me…”

“Abandoning you? Ms Formby...Nichola, please. Nobody abandoned _you_. You have had numerous affairs, you have threatened violence, you have falsely accused former partners of rape, you have spread lies, you have committed bigamy. If you will not recognise this evidence as solid proof that you require help, then I do not know what will convince you. Your formative years were spent in a...shall we say, _dysfunctional_ household to say the very least. You really haven’t been truthful about that either. Your mother was a single parent, bringing you up alone. You never knew your father but your mother made many attachments, did she not? Made ends meet with money from her regular clientele. You were left to fend for yourself, and you grew up thinking men were nothing more than a transient means to an end. This,” and Mycroft tapped another thin file that he separated from the rest, “is an evaluation of your state of mind from a member of my profiling team, based upon what we already know about you. He has identified multiple issues that need to be addressed. You will therefore accompany him after we have finished here, and you will undergo a full psychiatric assessment, to determine what the best course of treatment should be for your particular needs. If you are found to need help, the correct course of treatment will be arranged for you, at no cost to yourself, but you will attend any and all counselling sessions that are arranged for you, in lieu of a term in prison. If you refuse, then facing trial is the only option. I will be monitoring your activity in future, making sure you stay well away from your former lovers and husbands, and attending therapy to help you curb your destructive behaviour. You are to cease and desist all actions that bring your former partners into disrepute. You are to stop spreading rumour and falsehoods concerning them. Should you ignore my injunction, the consequences will be dire. Do you understand?”

“You can’t do this! Who the Hell do you think you are?”

“Someone who has the best interests at heart for those people whom you have injured. Nichola, if you are arrested, you will go to prison. If you refuse my help, you will be arrested and stand trial. Is that what you want?”

“I...no...I...” 

Mycroft suppressed a sigh. “I shall not offer this a second time. Your bank accounts have been frozen, to prevent your escape had we not been able to secure you. From now on, your movements will be monitored until you show you are no longer a threat.”

“I...you can’t…”

“I can, and I will. Ms Formby, it is high time you stopped hurting people, including yourself. Enough is enough. Hobson here will escort you to Doctor Maddison and she will evaluate you. I suggest you cooperate fully.” He watched as Hobson stepped forward and took her by the arm. 

“You can’t keep me here...John will miss me…”

“Your current partner will be contacted, never fear. I doubt you will be detained longer than a couple more hours. I shall have a car return you home, don’t let that worry you.” _Unless my psychiatrists determine you are a risk to either yourself or others, in which case I will have you removed to secure hospitalisation..._ Mycroft would take that on advisement. 

Once Nichola had been escorted out, he picked up his phone. “Anthea, my dear, would you call Sherrinford and place them on standby to receive a patient? We’ll know if they’re to be needed in the next two hours...a precautionary measure only, yes. Thank you. Oh, and Anthea, please have my car ready in ten. Thank you again.” 

**0000000**

Greg couldn’t make his brain work properly. Something was urgently insisting he get up, move, leave the area...he couldn’t remember why...He tried to move and came up against the first obstacle. A sharp piece of wood had impaled itself in his thigh. There was muffled shouting, a fog of smoke, he could neither see nor think straight…

“It’s okay, Greg, just relax. Ambulance is on the way…” Sally, visor up in order to see, face covered in sweat and grime, hovered above him.

“Sal...what happened?”

“Explosion, sir. Gas bottles in the back room. Tried to warn you.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Apart from you, you mean? Bradley and Finch were well away, Patel has concussion, but apparently you pushed him over next doors’ fence when you heard the warning.”

“I did? Can’t remember…”

“Boss, if you hadn’t…” Apparently, one of the cylinders had been flung across the yard and buried itself in the wall, right where Patel had been standing. “Ever the bloody hero,” she said. “No, stay still. You’ve got a piece of wood spearing your leg. You’ll need surgery, boss.” Sally had a first aid kit open beside them and was busy applying a tourniquet to her boss’s leg. 

“Agh, bugger it, Sal…That hurts…”

“I know, I’m sorry, but I need to stop the bleeding. There, that’s doing it.” 

Greg’s eyes slid closed. He was tired, and light headed, and all he wanted to do was drift... 

“Oi!” he roused to Sally’s voice and her shaking his shoulder. “None of that, you need to stay awake, Greg. Come on, focus…”

“Can’t…”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three?”

“Yup, concussion. Do not go to sleep, you hear me. Where is that sodding ambulance?” She snapped, looking over her shoulder. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday?”

“Who is the Prime Minister?”

“Boris, more’s the pity…”

“What’s your name?” 

“Gregory Ambrose Lestrade…”

“Ambrose? Since when?”

“Okay, I made that up…”

“Wanker…”

“It’s Aloysius…”

“Your middle name is Alan…”

“No, it’s not. It’s Alexander…”

“Alexander? Jesus…”

“No, it isn’t Jesus, I can assure you of that.”

“Nothing much wrong with you that a lobotomy wouldn’t cure…”

“Oh...fuck...Sal, can you phone someone for me?”

“Sure, who?”

“Mycroft…Number’s on my phone. We had...we were...” For some reason he did not want to admit to it being a date.

“Okay, okay, don’t move. I’ll get it,” Sally said, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the mobile. Greg told her the unlocking code and she found his contacts list quickly, scrolling through. “Here it is. What do you want me to tell him?” 

“We were going out tonight. Just...tell him I’ll have to pass.”

“I’ll tell him you’re hurt…”

“No, please, he’ll worry…”

“He’s your boyfriend, he’s supposed to. Greg…” A commotion behind them heralded the paramedics and Sally was sidelined as they got on with attending her boss. 

**0000000**

“Gregory?” Mycroft answered his phone as soon as he saw the caller ID but was disappointed not to hear Gregory’s voice on the line. It was a woman he did not recognise.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes? I’m Sally Donovan, Greg’s Watch Commander. I’m calling on Greg’s behalf. He’s been taken to hospital…”

“Hospital? Why, what happened?”

“We were attending a house fire but there was an explosion...Gas cannisters...I’m afraid Greg was injured by flying debris. He’s in Bart’s…”

**0000000**

Greg woke to the regular sounds of a hospital ward, someone moaning off to his right, trolleys being wheeled along a corridor, doors closing and opening, muffled beeping… There was another bed opposite his that was curtained off, his own bed curtained on his right, windows of the end of the ward on his left. He was dressed in the ubiquitous thin hospital gown, an IV drip in one arm, and his left thigh was heavily bandaged. His head ached, and his focus was a bit fuzzy. He rolled his head, but couldn’t see anything much beyond the curtain. As he looked it was switched back out of the way to reveal...Mycroft? A nurse bustled around the bed and peered at him.

“Mr Lestrade? How are we feeling?”

“Shit...sorry, everything aches.”

“Only to be expected,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “I’ll get you something for it. You have a visitor. Now try not to tire him,” she said, directing her instruction at Mycroft. “I’ll be just down the hall.” Mycroft hesitated, hovering by the end of the bed.

“How are you?” he asked. “Your colleague, Sally, called me.”

“Yeah. Asked her to cancel our dinner plans. Sorry...Got speared by a bit of vengeful double glazing…”

“I hear it can be quite...baleful, on occasion.” 

“Yeah, I wasn’t quick enough.”

“On the contrary, I hear you were quick enough to shove your colleague out of the way.”

“Not fast enough to dodge it myself though.”

“Yes, well, it might have been worse,” Mycroft murmured. “I brought grapes,” he added, putting them on the over-bed table. 

“Thanks. Look, I really am sorry…” 

“Gregory, it is no fault of yours that you have been injured. Dinner can be scheduled any time.” Mycroft sat himself in the chair by the bed, regarding Greg with wary eyes.

“What?” Greg said. 

“Is this a common occurrence for you?” he asked. 

“What, ending up in hospital? No, thank God. I’ve only been hospitalised three times in my life.”

“Only?” Mycroft commented dryly. “What about A&E? Your colleague seems to think you see the inside of a hospital far too often.”

“Oh, well, A&E isn’t really bad though. Okay, I’ve had stitches a couple of times and been treated for burns a handful of occasions but I’m a fireman, Myc. Burns are kind of expected. Never had anything very bad. I’ve had my appendix out, which isn’t really my fault. I was 18 when that happened. I’ve only been in once before for any length and that was a few days when I last had concussion. Hit by debris again. Nothing major though. Seriously. I’m not reckless…”

“That’s not what your Watch Commander thinks.”

“I well know what Sal thinks. She shares her opinion with me on a regular basis. Look, this is...a hazard of the job, Mycroft. Occasionally, I fall foul of circumstance, but then, so do we all…”

“We shall talk about that when you are discharged. Which is likely to be when, exactly?”

“A few days, I should think. They want me up and about as soon as, but they’re keeping me under obs because of the concussion. Likely I’ll be signed off for a few weeks. Desk duty when I get back.”

“Good. Come and stay at mine when they discharge you…”

“Yours? Really?”

“Well, I doubt they’ll release you if you live alone, and I can only surmise that you will go crazy if incarcerated here for longer than necessary.”

“True enough. You’re sure?”

“I would not have suggested it had I not been.”

“Okay then, sure. I accept.”

“Good. So...double glazing, really?”

“Yeah. Could have been a gas canister…”

“Gas canister?”

“Occupant was a sculptor, kept welding apparatus at home in his dining room.”

“Is that even legal?”

“Probably not. Mycroft…”

“Gregory?”

“I am sorry. Look, I understand if this is...well...too much for you? I know it was Nicki’s argument…Kept telling me it was too dangerous, that she couldn’t put up with me endangering myself like this.” 

There was a pause, during which Mycroft shifted a little uncomfortably. “About your ex-wife…” he began.

“What about her?” Greg asked. 

“I have...taken steps, Gregory…”

“Steps?”

“Yes. She will not harm anyone again, not if I can help it.”

“Oh, God, what have you done?”

“Good heavens, Gregory, I have not done anything terrible. Do not look at me like that. I had her brought in for questioning today, that is all. We discussed everything my team has found concerning her past actions, and she has attended a mandatory psychiatric evaluation. As a result, she will be expected to attend therapy sessions to modify her behaviour and address her mental issues. She has promised to follow treatment and is being monitored to keep her away from her former lovers and partners, including you. If she reneges on my generous offer of therapy and guidance to stop her destructive behaviour then she will face the full might of the law.”

“Bloody Hell, you can do that?”

“She escaped hospitalisation, but barely. Gregory, one of her lovers committed suicide.”

“Fuck…”

“Did you know that she was already married when she married you?”

“Married? No, I didn’t. You mean…”

“Her divorce from her previous husband did not come through for another year after marrying you. She lied about her status.”

“What an utter fucking bitch…”

“She had a veritable string of adulterous affairs. She has had three injunctions to keep her distance from former lovers, one from as far back as university. She has lied, deceived, and she has repeatedly defamed every one of her lovers. She is not a pleasant person, but...she requires help, which will be provided, completely free, and providing she attends all her sessions she will escape jail.” Greg was staring at him, speechless.

“Phew,” he said, gustily. “That’s quite a relief, actually. Not having to worry about what she might do next...Thank you, love. That’s very...compassionate of you.”

“I wanted to do something worthy of you, my dear. I did not consider that treating her any other way would be acceptable. I could have easily had her locked away, never to see the light of day again. There are certain holding facilities that I might have sought to use. She has a lot to answer for, after all. However, there are reasons for her behaviour, some stemming all the way from childhood. Hopefully she will receive the care she needs to change.”

“That’s admirable, Mycroft. Thank you.”

“Not at all. I am certain she will be helped, with time. For now, there is nothing you need to worry about. Rest. Heal. I shall be back tomorrow.” Mycroft stood up, just as the nurse arrived back with water and pills. He leaned over, unselfconsciously, and laid a kiss on Greg’s lips. “Take care, Gregory. Do as you are instructed. Do not strain yourself, my love. Understood?”

“Yes, Myc. Understood.” Greg smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

“You are...alright with what I told you? It does not distress you?”

“Hell, no. By the time we split, I was just glad to get away from her. Don’t feel much for her any more, not really. I mean, I’m glad she’s getting help, but honestly, I don’t really care. I’m fine with it.”

“Don’t let it knock your confidence, that’s all. I wouldn’t want you to feel…”

“Duped? Conned? Gullible?” 

“Responsible.”

“Nah, honest. I got over that ages ago. I’m okay, Myc. But thanks.”

Mycroft nodded, smiled, and then walked to the door where he paused and gave Greg a wave before disappearing down the corridor.

“Quite dashing, isn’t he, your fella?” The nurse grinned, handing him the pills.

“Yeah, he is.”

“Been together long?”

“No, not as long as I’d have liked. Wish I’d met him years ago.”

“Well, looks like he’s not going anywhere,” she said. “Cares for you a lot, unless I miss my guess.” She watched him swallow the pills. “Get some rest now, dear. I’ll be along in a little while to take your blood pressure…” Greg nodded sleepily, closing his eyes on the bustle of the ward, letting the pills pull him back under. 


	10. A Good Choice of Convalescent Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there, but this story isn't quite done with. It's all fluff, hurt/comfort, with emphasis on the comfort.

“Good morning, Mr Lestrade. You’re going home today…”

Greg cracked an eye open and groaned. Admittedly he was more than ready to leave hospital, but...he was torn. He had no one to go home to, and he would be looking after himself in a first floor flat…. He would have to arrange home delivery for his shopping, he'd be stuck inside all the time, and with a view over the supermarket carpark behind his flat, it wasn’t very inspiring. On the other hand, he didn't want to impose on someone he barely knew. Mycroft had offered to let Greg stay with him, but…. Maybe he wouldn't feel comfortable in someone else’s house. He didn't know what to do for the best.

Greg sighed, yawned and struggled to sit. “Morning,” he muttered. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude but I wish I was still asleep…”

“Of course you do, but I’ve got your readings to do before the doctor will sign you off. You can rest afterwards. Come on now, do you need the loo?”

Ablutions dealt with, Greg sat on the bed while the nurse took his temperature, blood pressure, and everything else she could think of. Not long after, he was presented with a cup of tea, then his breakfast came along and he applied himself to it gratefully. After that he got dressed with a little help, Sally having been by with fresh clothes the day before. His uniform had been trashed, the trousers needing to be cut away to get at his injury. At least she had brought his warm weather-proof jacket. It was raining, the sky outside the ward window overcast and cold, not an appetising day at all. 

“Good morning, Gregory.”

Greg looked up in surprise. Mycroft Holmes was standing in the doorway, smiling. 

“Morning, yourself,” he said, smiling in return. “It’s hardly good though.”

“I am afraid that even I cannot affect the weather, Gregory, or believe me when I say I would have done so long ago.” 

Greg chuckled. “Knowing you, I can believe it,” he admitted.

“So, am I too early?”

“What for?”

“Please don’t tell me you forgot I had invited you to stay with me?”

“I didn’t forget...but… Look, Mycroft, I’m not sure. I mean…it's a bit of an imposition...”

“Gregory, cease and desist, immediately. I do not make empty offers. If you are worrying about my ability to look after you, you should not concern yourself. I have taken two rather overdue weeks off work, I am on standby only in the event of a national emergency, and I will be at your disposal.”

“Oh. Okay then. Can’t really refuse, can I? Truth be known, I’m not really looking forward to going home to a first floor flat with no lift.”

“Precisely my point. So, are you ready yet, or are you still awaiting paperwork?”

In the end it took another hour before Greg was presented with paperwork, complete with aftercare instructions, appointments for physiotherapy, and a reminder to make an appointment at his own doctors to have the staples removed from the wound. Only then was he let loose to Mycroft’s care. They had given him crutches and he was told to keep the weight off his leg as much as possible, and to report any pain or inflamation to his own doctor. Mycroft helped him to the lift and then to his own car.

“This yours?” A modest Audi was parked illegally nearby.

“Hm, yes,” Mycroft said offhandedly. 

“And it’s not been clamped or ticketed, parked like this? Either you’re very lucky or...”

“I have it registered with a...a certain government department,” Mycroft admitted. “It registers as an undercover security services vehicle if they run the plates,” Mycroft told him. “Which it still is, on occasion, but it allows me to park anywhere I like, pretty much go anywhere I like too.”

“Seriously?” Greg boggled. “What the Hell do you really do, Mycroft? You are not _minor_ anything, are you? Why would they have wanted to rescue you if you weren’t someone significant?”

“Close advisor to the Cabinet, Gregory, with a history in the security services.” Mycroft noted that Greg had no comment to make on that. “And that is more than you should know without having signed the Official Secrets Act.”

They drove into a fashionable mews less than fifteen minutes later, and Mycroft pressed a button on the keyfob that raised the remote garage door. He drove in, and the door descended behind them as they parked. Mycroft helped him get out and guided Greg into a small lobby next to the garage. Expecting stairs, Greg was surprised to see a small open-sided lift that raised them through the floor to the living area. The place was modern but cosy, and the lift was an unusual addition. 

“I often get home rather tired,” Mycroft explained. “There are stairs to the rear of the building but this is better.” Greg realised that the garage and the lobby were only the front of the building, because this room was larger, extending to the rear of the property, its windows looking out onto a first floor deck above a rather long and enclosed walled garden. Another building sat across the end of the garden. “My security people live-in,” Mycroft said. “The old stable and carriage garage was converted into a permanent place for them to stay. My driver and security occupy the premises, they man the cctv and alarms around the clock, in the downstairs office behind the garage. My driver must be willing and able to get me to emergency meetings at a moment’s notice.”

“Wow...that’s...very 007, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps. I am more M than a field operative these days though.”

“The leader of the pack, hm?”

“Power behind the throne, more accurately. Does that disturb you, Greg?”

“You called me Greg.”

Mycroft smiled, one elegant eyebrow raised just so. “I tell you I am in effect more powerful than the PM and you are more surprised that I just shortened your name?” 

Greg grinned, showing teeth. Cheeky brown eyes regarded him. “Look, mate, as long as I do nothing that would mean you locked me up and threw the key away, I am not scared of you…”

“The power I wield, you are more at risk from other...quarters, simply because you are acquainted with me. Does that not trouble you?”

“I’m a fireman, love. I face danger on a regular basis.”

“Not from assassins, you don’t.”

“And I’m supposed to let that stop me? If we allow that to stop us, they’ve already won. Besides, your security is surely up to snuff…”

“I very much doubt yours is.”

“Well, I’ve never attempted to date the British Government before.”

“Look, seriously, Gregory...Greg...if our relationship does flourish, you might have to be prepared to consider a more permanent desk post, or training role. In truth the threat to you is minimal considering I keep a very low profile, but still....”

“You telling me that I’ll need to play safe?”

“I am readying you for change. Because if we are to make anything of this...Look, Gregory, this is what puts people off me. Ultimately, I make demands, and I consider my job rather more important than that of my partners' jobs…”

“I see. Indispensable, are you?”

“Some would say.”

“So what about you? What about _your_ life, about what _you_ want, your needs?”

“My needs come second to National Security.”

“Bollocks, if you don’t mind me saying. Look, if you are so bloody indispensable, you should be demanding more from your bosses, you know?”

“I am...I have never…”

“Never what? Never needed anything? About time you started, in my opinion. Gods, you _deserve_ so much more, you know? Bet you never take proper holidays? You know the kind, the ones where you are completely off grid, completely out of contact, completely and totally able to relax? No, thought not. What do those bastards in Whitehall want from you? Blood? About time they started giving back a little. Hm? I’d like to think they wanted you rescued because it was altruistic, but I think it was more selfish...”

“Yes, well, let’s save such debate for another time, shall we? Your comfort comes first right now. You should be resting.”

”You’re deflecting.”

“Perhaps, but your comfort is important. Right now you need to lie down, take the weight off your body. Crutches can be tiring, considering you are not used to them.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m feeling a bit whacked out, truth be known.”

“So...let us get you situated, we shall find your meds, and I shall put the kettle on. Are you warm enough?" 

“Not too bad, thanks.” Greg allowed Mycroft to get him seated in an extremely comfortable chair by the fireplace, a warm glow from the woodburner in the hearth already beating back the chill in his bones. He was a little surprised when Mycroft returned with a blanket and handed him the tv remote. 

“Please be my guest, find something you wish to watch if you wish. I shall make us some tea and then ask Jeremy to order take away.”

“Jeremy?”

“One of my drivers. Jeremy is longest serving, Frank has been with me six months, and Grace is the new recruit. I have a rota for close protection too. Yuri and George as my usuals, with Peter and William the relief. We always have takeaway delivered to the coach house in the yard to the rear of the property, and then it gets brought up here. Safer that way. It isn’t ever in my name. What would you prefer?”

“A nice Chinese would be good. Something stir fried, with cashews and water chestnuts.”

“No sooner said than done.” Mycroft disappeared and left Greg to doze as he went to make them a cup of tea. 

”Gregory...I...um...I wanted to discuss sleeping arrangements.” Mycroft said, as he placed the tea tray down on the table.

Greg nodded. “What is there to discuss?”

”Merely that I was going to situate you in the spare bedroom, to give you space.”

”Oh, okay.”

”Would you be agreeable to that...or…?”

”No, that’s fine.” In truth Greg was slightly disappointed, but he understood Mycroft’s reasoning. He tried to keep it out of his voice. He wouldn’t be up to much as a lover right now anyway. _Besides, we haven’t exactly been intimate, apart from kisses_. Greg wasn’t completely sure their relationship would become anything more than friends yet.

”Are you sure you are comfortable with that arrangement?”

Greg smiled. “Sure, makes sense,” he agreed, accepting his tea and taking a sip to cover his feelings.

”You need not worry. The room is right next to mine,” Mycroft said, attempting to reassure.

 _Of course it is,_ Greg thought, unsure if that would make it better or worse.

**0000000**

"Gregory? Are you quite alright?"

"Mph...wah?" Greg struggled to wake, eyes opening on darkness. The bedroom was quiet in the early morning light creeping under the curtains. Mycroft was standing in the doorway, in his dressing gown. He reached to flick on the overhead light and progressed into the bedroom.

"You were moaning in your sleep, my dear. Are you alright?"

Greg yawned and blinked sleepily up as the man arrived next to him. He nodded. "Think so. If I was dreaming, I can't remember it. Shit, sorry. I woke you. You okay?"

"Quite, yes. Don’t fret yourself. Would you like some cocoa? I think I'll go make some for us, help you relax. Are you in any discomfort?"

Greg shook his head. "Not really. Aches a bit, nothing more."

"Good. Be back in a jiffy." He watched as Mycroft left and his body stirred with interest as he watched the man walk. 

Content to lie there quietly, he awaited Mycroft's return, letting his mind wander, considering the implications of dating a powerful political advisor. He briefly wondered how Mycroft got on with Dominic Cummings, and his ilk. Not very well, he assumed, if he had gleaned anything at all about Mycroft in the relatively short time he had known him. 

When he asked about it on his return, Mycroft smiled, enigmatically. "I'm afraid I couldn't possibly comment," he said. "He is...convenient, I suppose. I am not the wearer of the crown, Gregory, I work behind the scenes. Mr Cummings is far more in the public eye than I will ever allow myself to be."

"So when the proverbial shit hits the fan, he'll be the one in the firing line?"

"One can but hope..." 

Greg drank the rest of his cocoa with a smile.

"I suppose I should call in on the station at some point, let them know I'm still alive," Greg mused as he lay on the sofa later that morning. Mycroft was sitting reading a newspaper, half-glasses perched on his nose and a pot of tea by his elbow. 

"I can have a car ready whenever you wish," Mycroft offered. “however, I would have thought you should perhaps rest today.”

"I wasn’t thinking of going today, but when I do...look, Myc, don't want to seem ungrateful, but…" Greg paused, trying to find the words.

"You are not... _out_ , at work, are you, Greg?"

"How do you do that?" Greg asked, but he was smiling. "Uncanny how you know what I'm thinking."

"It wasn't a hard leap, Gregory. Why else would you not want to turn up with me in tow?"

"I hadn't even finished what I was saying."

"As I said, not a hard leap. Saying it like that means you were going to reject my offer of the car and go on your own."

"Okay, that's...logical."

"Ergo, if you want to go alone, you do not want to be seen in a situation that might iprompt uncomfortable questions."

"There is that…"

"It's perfectly alright, Gregory. I do understand…"

Greg sighed. "No, it really isn't. Look, if we're making a go of this, my friends need to know. Sal knows about me, but the rest, they need to know too. I'm not lying about this because of what anyone might say. That's not right. I'm not ashamed of you, or me for that matter."

Mycroft regarded him with affection. "As long as you're sure." 

"I might not be sure, but I'm doing it anyway."

"There speaks a decisive mind."

"Glad you didn't say reckless."

"Why would I say that?"

"Oh, you know, going in while not being sure of the situation."

"That is not being reckless, Gregory. Recklessness is putting yourself and others at risk without forethought. I've never seen you act without thinking. The fact that you understand the situation is risky, despite not being completely sure of the outcome, you come to a decision and keep to it, ergo, decisive. Not to mention courageous. Your actions on the bridge, for instance. Your actions right now. You are not certain of the outcome, but you have considered it, and you have decided your course of action, regardless."

"I need you to have a conversation with my Watch Commander…"

"Ms Donovan is of the opinion that you don't put yourself first, because your wife made you feel worthless. She isn't quite correct, is she?"

"Nicky made me feel like shit, truth be known, so in that regard, Sal's actually right."

"I believe the term is gaslighting, making you believe something that isn't true, twisting the facts to warp your own perception of the situation."

"Yeah, well, I got out, but I did realise what she was doing."

"Thank goodness you did. I believe that you simply disregard your own needs over the needs of others, Gregory.” Mycroft sighed. “In that, you and I have similar regard. You take your job, your profession, very seriously, because it is everything to you. Your career is your life. I realise it would be very wrong of me to ask you to give it up."

"You know, I've got to thank my ex for something. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have left the army, but if I hadn't left, I wouldn't have met you."

"Every cloud has a silver lining," Mycroft said. "I do hope it proves true, for all our sakes."

"Yeah, me too. I resented leaving the army for such a long time too, even more when I realised it wasn't working. You can't imagine how it felt, knowing I'd done it for nothing. I could have been a Major by now, possibly even Lieutenant Colonel." Greg shrugged. "I was lucky that I found a great civilian career. I've made it mine, and you're right, it is my life. I had nothing else after we split. Classic scenario, I threw myself into it after we went our separate ways. But...and it is a big _but_ , it shouldn't come between us, nothing should. If we make a go of this, then we put each other first. If you can't do that for me…"

Mycroft was looking pained. "I sincerely hope that it never does," he said softly. "I cannot be sure that it won't. It somewhat scares me that it might...."

Greg softened. "Hey," he said, gently. "Cross that bridge when we come to it, yeah?"

"I truly hope so, Gregory."

**0000000**

A week into his convalescence and Greg was getting restless. Mycroft wouldn’t let him do too much. There was the garden, which he was allowed to walk around and practice using his crutches, and his bedroom was lovely, but he didn’t want to stay in it longer than necessary. Mycroft was intent on him not overdoing things. 

The man had a very domestic routine. Mycroft rose early and showered, insisting that Greg stay in bed as long as he wanted. Newspapers would be perused over breakfast, every newspaper, including the tabloids, and the rags that didn’t deserve the title. Mycroft argued that there was always the possibility that some journo somewhere had stumbled across something newsworthy no matter who they worked for, and the bigger tabloids might publish something damning, seeking to get it in under the radar. He kept a weather eye on all of them. Greg was happy to read through Mycroft’s discard pile. 

Breakfast itself was served up by Mycroft’s housekeeper, Mrs Lovell. The woman didn’t say much, and she was only around for a few hours each morning, five days a week, between 7 and 10 as a rule. She was a retired school cook in her early 60s, greying hair above lively hazel eyes, and her eyes smiled even if the rest of her didn’t. She cleaned and tidied the living areas, vacuumed the rooms on a rotation, and generally kept the place spotless and her boss fed and watered if he was home. She took the new guest in her stride and began leaving them tasty sandwiches for lunch. She was a good cook too, varying her cuisine so that no two days’ breakfasts were the same. Dinner was left up to her employer to make for himself, but on one day she did bring the remains of an excellent shepherd’s pie that she said she’d “made too much of” and another day she brought a whole chicken pie insisting it had been made from the remains of the large bird she and her family had for Sunday lunch. She left her offerings for them to heat up later. 

“I am convinced she has it in her head that now I have a guest I need help to feed you,” Mycroft said.

”She’s being kind, Myc,” Greg defended. “Let’s face it, your kitchen wasn’t well stocked for two.” Anthea and Jeremy had brought several bags of groceries in with them, as well as clothing collected from Greg’s own flat, the day after their arrival at Mycroft’s home. 

”I have taken steps to remedy that, as you well know,” Mycroft replied, slightly affronted. Greg chuckled, unmoved by Mycroft’s pout.

Every morning Mycroft would spend a bit of time in his home office while Greg would relax on the sofa watching the tele, then Mycroft would appear for lunch and they would chat for a while. A turn around the garden if the weather was fine was accompanied by more conversation, and Mycroft was easy to talk to. Greg found himself getting used to the companionship, and reluctantly faced the fact that he would have to go home at some point.

Anthea came around every other day, usually closetting herself in with her boss to discuss sensitive matters. She was a pleasant personality to have around, and Greg insisted on inviting her to stay to lunch on the days she had to call. Mycroft bowed to his houseguest’s insistence and the three of them got along well, Anthea as erudite as her boss when it came to conversation.

”Could we go to the station today?” Greg asked toward the end of the week. “I’m feeling a lot better, now I’m out of that place.”

”Are you sure?” Mycroft was hesitant. “You are still convalescing. I wouldn’t want you to do anything detrimental to your recovery.”

"I want to get it over with, then I can relax. Besides, I get the stitches out tomorrow morning, so I have to go out then. A day won’t make much difference.”

“Very well, if you feel you will be up to it.”

Greg sighed. “I’ve no reason to go, I just…it’s eating me, I want to see the team again. Shift ends at 5pm, so if we can go soonish? Need to go face the music."

Mycroft swiftly sent a text to his driver and smiled thoughtfully. "And when there's moonlight, and music, and love, and romance?" he quipped, trying to keep a straight face. "You know what you should do, Gregory?" 

"Of course," Greg said. “We face the music, and dance. Remind me to sweep you off your feet into a foxtrot when my leg is better." 

"You can dance?”

“Yes, I can, and what’s more, I enjoy it.”

“Where did you learn to dance, Gregory?" 

"Just something else I have to thank my ex for," Greg replied. "We joined a dance class because Nicky fancied it. Turns out she fancied the instructor more than me though…" He grinned. “Actually, so did I.” 

"Her loss is my gain, Gregory," Mycroft said. "I will need to take you with me as my plus one to more ambassadorial balls."

"They still have those?"

"Too many. I avoided them before…I think I may make a point of accepting more invitations if I get the chance to go to them with you. God knows, I receive enough of the things. Come along then, we’d best get ready.” 

Mycroft's phone pinged with a text less than ten minutes later to tell him the car was waiting. He was smiling happily. "Jeremy is waiting out front. We can be there before your team's shift ends."

"Come on then, Cinders, our chariot awaits." 

**0000000**

“Boss!” Sally cried and practically ran to him for a hug, stopping short before she knocked him off his crutches. “You’re okay?”

“Yup, I am. Thanks. I’m staying at Mycroft’s while I recover...Um...Sal…”

“Yeah?”

“Mycroft and I...you know we’re…”

“Together?” she suggested, grinning. “I knew before. Called him your boyfriend and you didn’t correct me, but you were in pain at the time though.” She grinned. “Well past time you found someone, Greg. So…” She turned in Mycroft’s direction. “He behaving?”

“He is, Watch Commander Donovan. I am making sure he doesn’t do too much too soon.” 

“Good. He gives you any trouble, you call me, and it’s Acting Station Commander, actually,” she said. “Just until this reckless Dickhead comes back to work. Call me Sally.” They shook hands, by which time several other teammates had wandered over to lend congratulations and welcomes. They all accepted Mycroft in their stride, dragging both men inside to the staffroom for coffee. 

An hour later, Greg pleaded tiredness and they disappeared back to the car, with many good wishes and hand shakes and back slaps from his teammates. Sally had been invited over for dinner, and Greg was quietly proud of Mycroft, not to mention his team for their complete pragmatism. They knew their boss wasn’t completely straight but when faced with proper evidence of it, not an eyebrow had been raised. 

“That went better than I expected.”

“You have a good team. They are intensely loyal to you.”

“They’re good mates. We’ve got each others’ backs.”

“I am somewhat reassured that you are in good hands when you are at work.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, I am. So...what now?”

“What now indeed. I had better begin the process for registering a significant other.”

“Christ, there’s forms for that?”

“Oh yes, Gregory. I work for the Government, remember? Forms in triplicate, signed in blood, sealing wax, the works.”

“The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things,” Greg intoned.

“Of shoes and ships and _sealing wax_ ,” Mycroft added, smiling.

“Of cabbages and kings,” Greg finished. 

“And why the sea is boiling hot…”

“And whether pigs have wings…One of my favorite poems,” Greg admitted.

“Would it surprise you to know it was mine too. I adored Jabberwocky, and the Owl and the Pussycat…”

“There isn’t time,” Greg intoned, “There isn’t time, to do the things I want to do, with all the mountain tops to climb and all the woods to wander through….”

“With all the seas to sail upon, and everywhere there is to go…” Mycroft added to Greg’s delight. “And all the people, every one, there are upon the earth to know…”

“I hadn’t figured you for a poetry lover, Myc.”

“There is a lot you have yet to learn about me, despite our conversations to date. I know a wonderful little cafe, personal service, warm welcome, private garden...as luck would have it, not very far away…may I invite you for afternoon tea perhaps?”

“Would this cafe have a selection of teas? Cakes, maybe?”

“I am sure I can provide everything you desire, Gregory.”

“First, Mycroft, you’ve got to find out what it is that I desire.”

“I am also sure that I can rise to that particular challenge, Gregory…”

“I’ll bet you can. I know one thing though.”

“And what would that be?”

“I’m going to enjoy you finding out…”


	11. Credit Where Credit Is Due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, Folks, the end of this one for now. Even the Queen makes a brief appearance in this one. Greg receives more than be bargained for.

“Stand still, Gregory. For goodness sake, stop fidgeting. The car will be here soon.” Mycroft settled Greg’s collar, then stood back to admire his partner. His partner was gorgeous in uniform, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

“I have never liked these do’s,” Greg muttered. He watched Mycroft’s long fingers move to ensure that his tie was sitting straight, then followed their slide down his lapels, the fingertips of Mycroft’s right hand grazing the ribbon bar above the left breast pocket. It represented an impressive array of military medals, plus those acquired during his Fire Brigade service. 

“I had no idea you were so... _decorated_ , Gregory.”

“Yeah, well, in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.” 

“Some would argue the opposite.”

Greg sighed. “Just doing the job, Mycroft, whatever it was at the time.”

“What will it take to convince you of your worth, Gregory?”

“Not sure you can, love. I really don’t think I was doing any more than what I signed on for.”

“Stubborn man. However, I dare say your attitude is refreshing, considering most of the people I meet have no humility at all. They rather think too much of themselves.”

Greg smiled, and leaned in to kiss Mycroft soundly. “Thanks for your faith in me then.”

“Whatever else you feel, you definitely cut a rather dashing figure. I shall need to watch out or you may be stolen out from under my grasp.” That made Greg laugh, and Mycroft was pulled in close for an appreciative hug. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. The uniform buttons got in the way, digging uncomfortably into his chest. Those buttons had been freshly polished and the rank insignia gleamed on the epaulettes. Greg’s hair was tamed a little, trimmed to neatness, but nothing would quite bring it under control. The quicksilver strands defied too much orderliness. Both of them had visited Mycroft’s own barber the previous day, and both men were now clean shaven as well as trimmed. Greg was a vision that almost took Mycroft’s breath away and one he wished he could indulge in all day. “You look…” Words failed him for once.

“A right tit?” Greg chuckled. 

“Breathtaking, I was about to say.”

Greg let him go and blew a derisive raspberry as he looked critically at himself in the full-length mirror. “I’m looking old. This bloody thing makes me feel old…” He brandished the hospital walking stick with a grimace. 

“Ah, I can remedy that,” Mycroft said, rummaging behind the wardrobe. “Rest assured,” he added, reaching for something that was obviously stuck in the gap between the wardrobe and the bedroom wall, “you look distinguished, Gregory, not old. However...I have something for you.” Mycroft stood back, emerging triumphantly grasping a long cane, black lacquered with a silver top. “There,” he said, offering it in place of the grey hospital issue stick. “This should match a little better.” 

“Mycroft...it’s…” Greg examined the handle curiously. “What bird is this? Looks like it’s leaping out of a fire…”

“It is a Phoenix, Gregory. I thought it appropriate for a firefighter.” He watched Greg’s grin and smiled along with him. “After all, you have had a new beginning, of sorts. Do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it. Is it for me?”

“Of course, my gift for an amazingly brave man who doesn’t believe it. After all, you have survived much, and you are still here, with your humour still intact.”

“Thank you. It’s....” 

“You can rely on it too, don’t worry. It is reinforced to support your weight. I had it made for you, to very specific stipulations.”

“This is amazing. _You_ are amazing, Mycroft. I don’t deserve you.”

Mycroft smiled. “I shall enjoy ensuring you get everything you deserve, and more, Gregory. Shall we?” He indicated the door.

Greg sighed. “Do I have to? I’m still not going to enjoy it…”

Mycroft sighed softly. “I cannot say I do not appreciate your sentiments, but it will be looked upon poorly if you do not attend. You do not wish to bring dishonour to your division, do you?”

Greg sighed. “Blackmail,” he muttered, gifting Mycroft a tiny smile. “Sorry, love. I know you acted with the best of intentions. It’s just…”

“I know. You all deserve this, each and every one of you. Every man and woman in the service is medal-worthy. I have honestly no idea how you do the job every day. I will remain in eternal awe of your abilities, all of you.”

Greg smiled. They had talked about this many times before. “I just don’t feel any better than the rest of my colleagues.”

“I know, and that sentiment does you credit, but the fact is, you rescued me, in more ways than one. Now, come along, or we shall be late, and that would be even worse than not going at all. By the way, I have arranged something for later this evening. I had my assistant sort it out…”

“What have you done now?”

“Nothing too extravagant. I have secured a room in a hotel, organised a free bar and a buffet, for you and your colleagues and their partners on White Watch. I also took the liberty of inviting John Watson and Findlay Murray, and I also invited your Area Commander too.”

“That was...kind. Thanks, Mycroft.” 

“A small token of my appreciation, for all that you do. A chance to let their hair down, I suppose. It is all arranged, and many have rsvp-ed already.” 

Greg took a moment to admire the man in front of him, marvelling over the fact that Mycroft was his. How had he got so lucky? Also dressed up in formal attire for their trip to the Palace, Mycroft looked gorgeous; slim, confident and assured. Greg’s nerves were getting the better of him, despite having done something like this before. His military awards had been no less formal, just...this was the Palace. He was about to meet the Queen. He bounced on the balls of his feet as they waited for the car, until Mycroft took his hand and stilled him gently. “Calmly, my dear. It will all go down well, I am sure. This is your day. I want you to enjoy it. Follow my lead, I have been to lots of similar receptions.”

“You know, I have done this before too, but nothing so... _royal_.”

“Good. Then you are not completely unfamiliar with what it entails.” Mycroft examined his phone. “Aha, our chariot awaits.”

They were not alone. There were plenty of other recipients at the ceremony in the Ballroom of Buckingham Palace that day. There were press photographers too, and security in abundance, their progress was checked and rechecked as they arrived, although Mycroft was bothered a lot less than others, some people waving them through with small bows of recognition.

“They know you?” Greg asked.

“Lord, I should hope so. I am here often enough. I play catch up with the Queen’s Equerry every month…”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Ever met her?”

“Her?”

“The Queen, Her Majesty?” 

“Occasionally…”

“Bloody Hell…” Greg muttered as they walked the wide corridors, flanked by ushers and officials and security. “You take this so...casually.”

“Familiarity,” Mycroft said. “That is all. I am used to visiting. It doesn’t overawe me.”

“Christ,” Greg said suddenly. “What do I say if they want to interview me?”

“Surely you’ve been interviewed before?”

“Not a lot, to be honest. Dave, our Area Commander, usually deals with that. There are the odd instances of press conferences, but less than you might expect. We’re not the police, after all. I’ve done a couple, but I was reading from a pre-prepared script, you know? I was the ubiquitous _Spokesperson for the Fire Service_.”

“Well, very simply, I would play the modest card,” Mycroft suggested. “Normally I would always ask who the interviewer works for, but to be honest, no matter who they work for, if they ask you how you feel about the honour, in this instance I would advise your response to be the same. Simply tell them you were basically doing your job that every firefighter in the country would do. You could also say that you don't feel that you did anything special. Downplay it, and tell them what a big surprise it all is. Add that you are deeply honoured and proud to serve as a firefighter, and you are also very proud to receive the honour. You could also say that you are part of a team, so it is not just your actions on the day. You could say something pithy about not being able to carry out those actions without them. The Press love that kind of soundbite."

“And you are the expert at dealing with the Press…”

“You have no idea. I advise all the time, but I never get in front of the cameras myself.”

“Unlike some I could mention.” Mycroft smiled and declined to comment. 

“Marion,” Mycroft said gently, moving to intercept a youngish woman accompanied by an older lady and two children. He embraced her gently, and stepped back. 

“Mycroft, how are you?” she asked warmly. 

“I am fine, my dear, but how are you?”

“Coping.” She took an unsteady breath. “It’s not been easy, but I’m sure you know that…”

“Of course. Anything you need, Marion, please, get in touch. I do not want you to find yourself in difficulties, financial or otherwise. Do I make myself abundantly clear?” 

She smiled, sniffed, and nodded. “Thank you. Can I call you soon?”

“Of course, whenever you wish. Was there something…?”

“I just...there was mention of a pension…”

“Certainly. I shall arrange it with my solicitor, on Monday. If you need anything before that can be arranged, call Anthea on Monday. I shall call you next week, and we shall chat. Would that be alright?” 

Greg watched the young woman nod and walk off with the rest of what was obviously her family. 

“Who was that?”

“Aran’s widow. My driver, the one who died in the bridge incident.” Mycroft watched them go regretfully.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Greg said gently. “You dealt with her very kindly, Myc. You’re a good man.”

“Aran died in my service. She is picking up a posthumous bravery award for him today. It feels like a very empty gesture.”

“Myc. It happened, okay? Wrong place, wrong time. Might as easily have been run over by a bus on his way home from the pub. Or crashed his car. Or got cancer? Fell and broke his neck...Look, it’s random. Bloody random, Mycroft. Wrong set of circumstances.”

Mycroft sighed. “I shall do my best for them. He deserved that much.”

“And you cannot offer more. She won’t have to worry about the future, Mycroft, and that’s important. You’re doing right by him, and her. So don’t let it fret you. Come on, should be you needing to calm me down, not the other way around.” 

The ceremony lasted a while, there were so many recipients. He watched Marion collect the award for her husband, and he spotted Treece and his SCO19 team as they went to receive awards for their part in the bridge rescue. When Greg’s name was called, he stood, and Mycroft also stood to steady him. 

“Shit,” he murmured. “Do they know I can’t kneel…”

“You wont need to kneel. This is a medal not a knighthood, so don’t worry,” Mycroft murmured. “Bow when you get to the stage, just an incline of your head, nothing more is needed. Do not forget to lean down so Her Majesty can place the medal on the hook they gave you.” An official had handed him a clip to place on his jacket to make it easy for the Queen to hook the medal on. It sat just beneath his medal ribbons. “She will say something complimentary, and you are allowed to reply. When you step away, bow again, and then one of the ushers will guide you back to your seat.” Mycroft sat down again as Greg limped along the aisle, thanking the fact Mycroft had secured seats close to the front. An official met him, and guided him forward. 

"In rescuing a man trapped in his car by a van which was primed with an explosive device, Station Commander Lestrade displayed outstanding gallantry, devotion to duty and a complete disregard for his personal safety. Therefore, for conspicuous bravery in the face of personal danger, demonstrating concern only for the safety of the general public without any thought of his own welfare, the Queen's Gallantry Medal is awarded to Station Commander Gregory Lestrade of the London Fire Service."

Mycroft watched with pride as Greg stepped up, posture militarily rigid, and inclined his head in a formal bow to Her Majesty. He remembered to lean a little to make it easier for the Queen to place the medal on his breast. She said something to him, and Greg smiled and responded. He watched her nod in reply, and then Greg stood back, bowed formally, and limped away in the care of another official. Everyone clapped politely, and the Usher guided Greg back to his seat. 

It seemed like no time at all after that, that the ceremony was all over, and people were milling around outside, admiring their awards, being photographed and interviewed. Mycroft had linked arms with him to lend support. “You did wonderfully, my dear.”

“Wish mum and dad could have seen this.”

“I am sorry they are not here to see their son. They would have been very proud,” Mycroft said. “As am I.”

“Thanks, love. What now?”

“Now, unless the Press wish to interview you, we can leave. I arranged the reception for seven this evening. I thought you may want to return home to get changed out of your uniform first, something casual for tonight?”

“Good idea.” 

“Excuse me, sir?” Greg turned to see a few press photographers nearby. “Would you mind posing for a photograph?” one asked. 

“Which papers?” Mycroft asked smoothly.

“Guardian, sir. John Terrington.”

“Dan Fowler, Daily Mail.”

“Times, Jonathan North.”

“Poppy Vickers, BBC.” There were a couple more, but Greg wouldn’t have remembered them anyway. One of them asked for his name. 

“Greg Lestrade,” he said, and spelled his surname out. “Station Commander for Soho, London Fire Brigade.”

“May I ask what was the award that you received today, sir?”

“Queen’s Gallantry Medal,” Greg said.

“I understand you were part of the rescue services that attended the terrorist attack on Westminster Bridge?” one of the women said. “You were responsible for rescuing someone from one of the trapped cars...” 

_And how did you find that nugget out?_ Greg wondered. “I was, yes.”

“Who was it that you rescued?”

“I’m sure you understand that information is confidential,” Greg responded easily, with a smile to take the sting out of the words. He narrowly stopped his gaze from flickering to Mycroft who was standing back behind the group. He had no wish to draw undue attention to the man. “Besides, I actually don’t know who the gentleman was. I didn’t recognise him,” he added, which wasn’t a lie. He really hadn’t known who Mycroft was until later. “I’m sure you also understand we didn’t exactly have time for formal introductions.” A ripple of laughter greeted this comment and Mycroft smiled as he watched. Greg had them eating out of his hand.

“Was that where you were injured?” someone asked.

“No, actually. I attended a house fire last month and we had a gas canister on the premises that exploded on us. I got hit by flying debris.” He shrugged. “It happens sometimes. Hazard of the job.” 

“May I offer congratulations on your award, sir,” one of the women said. “How does receiving this award make you feel?” 

“Honoured...” Greg launched off with the pre-rehearsed words Mycroft had suggested, citing his team, and how honoured he was, how much of a surprise it was. Mycroft, Greg noticed, melted into the crowd as he talked. 

A man appeared at Mycroft’s elbow while he was waiting for Greg to finish being interviewed. “Mr Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“Alexander Farrow, sir, secretary to the Queen’s Equerry, Frederick Buckley. I’m to extend an invitation from Her Majesty, sir, for you and Station Commander Lestrade to attend afternoon tea with her. Can I say you’ll attend?”

Mycroft stared, blinked, and then glanced at Greg before plastering on a smile. “Of course. Please tell Her Majesty we shall be honoured.” 

“You did what?” Greg asked, on rejoining Mycroft to find him waiting somewhat nonplussed by a flowerbed, almost concealed by the bushes. “What did you just say?”

“I just accepted tea with the Queen,” Mycroft said. “What else could I have done?” It was Greg’s turn to blink, and wonder what on earth he had got himself into.

“Mycroft,” the Queen’s Equerry said, affably, grasping him by the hand. “How are you? Been hiding yourself away lately?” They had been escorted to a palatial room, decked out in cream and gold and dark red, laid out with regency chairs grouped around a low table. A tea service had already been set out. There was a magnificent fireplace, and a massive chandelier hanging above them.

“I’ve been inordinately busy, Freddy," Mycroft apologied. "I am sorry I’ve not been more in attendance.”

“Never mind. So…” he looked at Greg speculatively.

“Freddy, allow me to introduce you to Station Commander Gregory Lestrade of the London Fire Brigade.” 

“Ah yes, the Queen’s Gallantry medal. Well done, sir,” he said, shaking Greg’s hand warmly. “You deserve the honour.”

“Thank you, sir,” Greg responded. 

“Yes, well, a little bird told me you’re very likely the reason Mycroft here is still with us.“

Greg stammered a denial but Freddy smiled warmly. “Nonsense, dear boy, credit where credit’s due, eh? Brave move under the circumstances.” 

“I couldn’t...guess I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d left someone behind…”

Freddy scrutinised him for a moment. Then he nodded, understandingly. “I also gather you’re ex-military too? Might interest you to know I served as well, Blues and Royals, but not as long as you. Ill health forced me to retire early. I was in the Falklands bust up. Bit before your time I should imagine.” Greg nodded. “Yes, well...bad business. Still, one does one’s best. Nobody can ask for more. Ah, good afternoon, Ma’am,” he said, turning toward the door. Her Majesty entered, smiled at them graciously before greeting Freddy, and then she homed in on Mycroft.

“There you are, dear boy, how are you?” she asked, pleasantly. “How is your dear mother?”

“She is well, thank you, Your Majesty. I shall pass your regards on to her.”

“You do that. How are you, Mycroft? Freddy tells me you were in that dreadful incident in Westminster.”

“Alas, all too true, Ma’am.”

“Still here though.” She smiled warmly, and looked at Greg. Poleaxed, he waited to be introduced.

“Allow me to present Station Commander Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft said, smoothly. “Although you have already met this morning.”

“Of course. Well done, young man. Freddy tells me that it was you who rescued Mycroft here?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I did. I mean, it was me…” Mentally kicking himself and wishing he were as comfortable with this as Mycroft, Greg stopped speaking before his mouth could run away with him. 

“You are a credit to the fire service, Mr Lestrade. Now do sit down, everyone. Freddy, be a dear and call for tea, would you?”

Greg could not recall much of their time with the Queen, only that she was kind, and a good conversationalist. Tea was served, and although Greg was ravenous, he barely ate anything. It seemed no time at all before Freddy was checking his watch and sighing regretfully 

“My apologies, Ma’am, but you have an appointment at four, I believe.”

“Thank you, Freddy. My erstwhile alarm clock, on the ball as ever.” She stood, and everyone else stood up as well. Her Majesty glanced around them. “Well, it has been a pleasure, gentlemen. Well done on your award, Mr Lestrade.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” 

“Tell your mother I’ll be inviting her and your father to the next garden party, Mycroft. Perhaps you would join them,” She paused, glancing between the two men. “Perhaps you should bring Mr Lestrade with you?”

“I...thank you, Ma’am, I will…”

“Good. Good afternoon, Gentlemen.” She left the room, accompanied by Freddy’s secretary. 

“Good to meet you, Greg,” Freddy said, shaking his hand. “Mycroft, have your girl call Alex and arrange our next meeting. It’s overdue. Sorry to abandon you. Got to dash,” he said. “George there will escort you out when you’re done. Do stay and finish your tea.” With that, he disappeared out the door. The liveried George stood by the door, straight backed and silent, waiting. 

Greg glanced at Mycroft, then huffed a relieved laugh. “Christ,” he muttered. “Did I do okay? I didn’t make any gaffs, did I?”

Mycroft smiled. “The perfect guest, I would have said,” he replied. “Did you wish to eat anything? I noticed you barely ate.”

“Nerves,” Greg admitted. “Not every day I get invited to tea at the Palace. Jesus...I have got to take one of those sandwiches for Sally…” Mycroft chuckled as Greg wrapped one of the small delicate sandwiches in his (clean) handkerchief and secreted it in his pocket. “Feel like a kid at a wedding…” 

“Come, Gregory, or there won’t be time to get home before we have to get to the hotel tonight.” Mycroft signalled that they were ready to leave, and the silent George lead them through the maze of corridors to their exit, where the car was waiting. 

**0000000**

The hotel was a posh one a stonesthrow from the fire station. Mycroft breezed in and gave his name and soon had the staff scurrying to do his bidding. He handed over two bags that he had removed from the car and asked that they be taken up to their room.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“When were you going to tell me you’d booked us in?”

“It was meant to be a surprise. I thought it prudent not to have to rush off home and we can lie in tomorrow and nurse any hangovers we might be sporting. I have booked for us to check out by lunchtime, so there’s no rush. I want you to enjoy tonight, Greg. This is for all of you, you and your team, but to me there is only one person I am interested in right now.” Greg could not resist that, and leaned in to kiss him. Mycroft smiled into the kiss and patted Greg’s behind. “Come on, I have to check the room, and make sure everything is set up right. I have booked a band, and a DJ for later.”

“Christ, Myc. Anything else I should know about? Have you secreted a registrar in there as well?” Mycroft paused and Greg caught it. “You haven’t, have you?” he joked. 

“Well...damn it all, Gregory…” Mycroft turned and walked into the big room that had been laid out for a party. Greg looked around appreciatively. Several round tables were strategically laid out around a dance floor, their tops decorated with tasteful centerpieces in blue and gold. A buffet table was being set up along the back wall. At the far end, there was a small bar, and a barman was busy polishing glasses behind it. There was a stage on the other side, by the dance floor, instruments and amplifiers already set up there. 

Greg followed Mycroft around, curious as to what had ruffled the man’s feathers. He pottered around, avoiding Greg, checking everything was in place that he had asked for, and then stopping in the center of the room.

“Myc? Everything okay?”

Mycroft whirled. “No, it is not _okay_ …” he said, his voice clipped. “I do not know how to do this, Gregory. I wanted it to be perfect…” 

“Wanted what to be perfect? Far as I can see this is pretty bloody amazing. What more could you do?” Mycroft sighed, one hand fidgeting in his jacket pocket. “Look, come up to the room,” Greg suggested. “I’m dying to see what you’ve booked.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got plenty of time. I’ve no need to change, I’m ready. You look fine as always. Come on, let’s check to make sure the band and the DJ are on time, and then we can go up.” Mycroft allowed himself to be towed toward the foyer. 

It was the work of moments to check that the band was already there, and the DJ was en route, and then Greg insisted they go upstairs. The lift pinged on the top floor and let them onto a landing graced with thick carpets and looking like something out of a Merchant Ivory film. The door let them into a palatial suite and Greg whistled approvingly. “Oh, my God, this is amazing. Mycroft...Bloody Hell, we actually have a four poster…” He waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe we can christen it later? Provided we don’t get too pissed, that is...”

“Gregory…”

“Look at that view…” Greg was looking out from the room’s balcony, across the rooftops. “This is fantastic.” He fished out his phone and started taking photos. “Come here, I need a selfie.” 

“Oh, God, no…” Mycroft groaned, but went anyway, allowing the indulgence. Greg drew close and snapped them both, the London skyline behind them. “Come on, Myc. Smile…” he insisted. Mycroft smiled, exasperated and fond. 

“Silly man,” he complained, gently. 

“Yeah, but I’m your silly man,” Greg said, grinning. The look in Mycroft’s eyes made his smile fade though. “What?”

 _Now or never,_ Mycroft considered. He slid his hand in his pocket and went down on one knee in a move that he managed surprisingly more smoothly than he had expected. He looked up and flipped the little box open. Greg’s expression registered surprise, then dawning realisation.

“Gregory, as you say, you are _my_ silly man,” Mycroft said, launching into his speech before Greg could say anything. “I hope that to be the case. We haven’t known each other very long, but you did after all literally sweep me off my feet. So...I wanted to ask...and I am afraid I am not good at any of this...I want you to know...I am yours, too. Your silly stupid man who wants nothing more than to be with you for the rest of his silly life, so…” Mycroft let out a sigh. “Gregory Lestrade, will you do me the utmost honour of becoming my husband?” He wobbled a bit, and would have overbalanced, but for Greg’s strong hands on his shoulders.

“Bloody Hell, Mycroft, you know how to make a guy speechless…” Greg registered he had been asked a question that definitely required an answer, like now, and grinned. “If you’ll have me...then yes, of course I’ll marry you, silly man.”

“As I believe you have already said, I am _your_ silly man, Gregory Lestrade, and this silly man is the happiest in London at this moment. Are you sure? This is a lot to take in, especially today…”

“Bring it on, love,” Greg said confidently. “Didn’t you know? I’m brave enough to handle anything, I’ve even got an award to prove it.”


End file.
